


Burden of Proof

by Alecto



Series: Too narrow a space to live [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:57:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 102,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alecto/pseuds/Alecto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two and a half years, Sherlock is back from the dead- except he was never really dead. And nothing is going according to plan. He doesn't like Mary, and he's sure that she returns the sentiment entirely. </p><p>Meanwhile, John struggles as he tries to balance hunting, Sherlock's scrutiny, and his own burgeoning feelings for his flatmate.</p><p>Also... the Apocalypse might be coming.</p><p>-Takes place within a modified <i>Supernatural</i> continuity-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already read [_Necessary Faith_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/383099), it is highly recommended that you do that first. This story, especially this chapter, may not make much sense otherwise.
> 
> Thank you so much to M for beta'ing this monster and being a generally awesome sounding board.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's return to London is marked by heavy rain and John Watson's palpable absence.

  
  
Cover by [bootsnblossoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms)  


* * *

Sherlock's return to London for the first time in almost one and a half year was marked by a heavy rainstorm. It worked to his advantage. All around him, the people of the city bustled by while huddled under umbrellas and hanging their heads against the wind, failing to both see and observe. He wore no disguises today. Instead, he was clad in his preferred armor of choice, looking exactly as he did the day he jumped off the roof of Bart's.

He tightened his clutch around his briefcase, resisting the ridiculous urge to hold it to his chest. Ten minutes ago, he took a jaunt around Trafalgar Square and he knew the CCTVs had caught sight of him. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, turning up his collar against the rain. His hair was plastered flat against his forehead by the time the black luxury sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the curb.

The door fell open to reveal Anthea sitting in the far seat with her eyes glued to her Blackberry. Sherlock slid into the car. She scrunched her nose in disgust as he dripped all over the leather interior. They spent the rest of ride shrouded in silence until they reached what Sherlock recognized as one of Mycroft's many private offices. His brother's office encompassed the entire top floor of the five-story building.

Sherlock strolled straight into the office, up to Mycroft's desk, and deposited his briefcase on top. He averted his gaze to the rest of the room so as to not have to look at his older brother. Mycroft had redecorated the place since Sherlock was last here over two years ago.

"This contains all the evidence exposing the entirety of Moriarty's criminal network. I need you to take this information public, lend it some sort of 'legitimate' law enforcement," he sneered. "Credibility."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's words are sharp and harsh. "You cannot just walk in after disappearing for two and a half years to make demands."

He slammed his hands down on the desk and leaned forward to meet Mycroft's gaze. "You owe me," he hissed.

Anyone else would have missed the half flinch covered up by Mycroft leaning back in his seat. But Sherlock noticed. It was probably safe to say that his brother still felt some residual guilt.

Mycroft looked away first—a rare and hard-won victory on Sherlock's part. "You're finished then?"

Sherlock eased back on the balls of his feet. "Almost, Sebastian Moran is the last puppet remaining. He knows I'm after him and has evaded me thus far."

It was boring, devoting the last three months to tracking just one man. Moran was not genius, but he made good use of his previous military experience and criminal connections thus far. But Sherlock had been just as thorough. By now, Moran must be discovering he had few allies and even less favors to call upon.

"Once Moran is dealt with, I'm ready to return." His chest expanded impossibly big as he tried to taper down the hope surging up. He wasn't done yet, but he was so close.

"I'll need two days to vet the appropriate media outlets." Mycroft finally said.

Sherlock turned on his heels and marched toward the door. As he laid a hand on the door knob and wrenched it, he heard the other man speak again.

"Welcome back, brother dear."

Sherlock nodded with his back still turned and stormed out of the room. He had more preparations to make.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock spent the next few days trapped in Molly's flat. He didn't speak for that first day, too busy going over all possible outcomes and scenarios in his head. Molly may have tried to talk to him after her hospital shift, but Sherlock couldn't be sure. He barely registered Toby, Molly's cat, insistently butting his cheeks every few hours.

The day after was Molly's day off and Sherlock had finally resurfaced from inside his head to browse the internet. When he didn't see any sign of Moriarty's identity in the news, he chucked the netbook at the coffee table.

"Sherlock!" Molly screeched with disapproval.

He glared in return, but she refused to be as easily cowed as in the past. For better or for worse, she was no longer awed by him—at least not in the same way. At least, her crush had also faded on the most part (tedious, though useful leverage at times). It was going to be a lot harder to needle her for body parts once he returned from obscurity and started working again.

She crossed her arms over her chest and asked, "Have you talked to John yet?"

Ah, Sherlock had been doing so well avoiding thinking about his best friend until that moment. It irked him to not know exactly where John currently was (as if he was going to ask for Mycroft's assistance again). But that also meant that Moran probably didn't know either, which would be a very good thing.

"I suppose I could text him," he muttered distractedly. He wondered if he would be able to still deduce John's passwords (sensible enough to now to avoid the common password archetypes like significant dates, but still prone to using phrases recently seen on the telly or read in the papers) and piece together his recent spending behavior to figure out John's location.

Molly had fallen silent. He forced his train of thought away, looking up to find the woman gaping open-mouthed.

"What?" he snapped.

"Your first contact with the poor man in over two years can't be a text message!" she cried, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I detest talking on the phone."

She threw her hands up in defeat (John, in similar situations of exasperation, clenched his fists and made that strangled noise that sounded like a small animal dying). It was clear she had more to say on the subject, but had settled for holding her tongue instead. Good, lectures from Molly were exceedingly dull. And he wasn't ready to be kicked out of her flat yet.

"I'm getting takeout for dinner tonight. Do you want anything?" she asked.

He grunted and she now knew him well enough to figure he meant "no."

By the time that the press conference aired on the BBC news the next evening, Sherlock was climbing the walls and contemplating using Molly's wall for target practice with the illegal firearm he obtained in Budapest.

"Sherlock, they're talking about Moriarty on the telly!" Molly called from the living room and her voice cracked at the name of her psychopathic ex-boyfriend.

Finally! Sherlock raced out of the bathroom and threw himself on the couch. He drew his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth with barely concealed anticipation. Jim Moriarty's mugshot was blown up on the presentation screen behind the stiff and suited man talking at the lectern. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste: ugh, MI5, one of Mycroft's lot.

The broadcast lasted about twenty minutes and ended with the promise of more details forthcoming in the near future. Questions were volleyed like missiles at the agents as they attempted to leave the room, who dutifully ignored the microphones being jammed in their faces. Sherlock smirked when he heard a few regarding the nature of his own connection with Moriarty. He picked Molly's laptop off her desk and went searching for for reactions online.

"You were waiting for this to happen." She still managed to make it sound like a question.

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes in response when he saw that a recording of the press conference had already been posted to YouTube. View counts were steadily climbing, aided by the link being retweeted among the #believeinsherlock tag on Twitter.

"It's part of the plan," he finally looked up at Molly, who was fidgeting with her hands and whose body was stiff with apprehension.

"Will you tell me?"

"No, it's better if you don't know."

After several moments of quiet, she sighed before walking away, "Okay."

He refocused his attention to tracking the rate at which the news was spreading. Within thirty minutes, online articles had gone up on the BBC, the Guardian, and Associate Press websites. They did little more than regurgitate information from the press conference. More detailed writeups were going to be on the front page of tomorrow's broadsheets.

Sherlock steepled his fingers together and leaned forward into them. The web was closing around Moran, and Sherlock was finally going to put an end to Moriarty's legacy. There was no early case buzz anymore, because the work of destroying Moriarty's network was grueling and exhausting (interspersed with moments of longing and terror he would admit to no one).

He was ready to come home.

-x-x-x-

It felt odd returning to 221B Baker Street after being away for so long, especially since he knew John would not be waiting for him. In fact, John was nowhere in London. In the end, it was for the best to keep John out of Moran's scope (but John loves/loved danger and was going to be peeved at having been left out).

And Sherlock wasn't going to risk John, not when he was so close to the end.

He didn't want to alert Mrs. Hudson to his return yet. So he waited until it was past midnight—well past the time for her daily dosage of herbal soothers—to lock-pick the front door. He swiftly and quietly made his way up the stairs to 221B.

The flat had been empty for the last five months since the last tenants moved out. The living room is almost completely bare except for the writing desk still sitting between the windows. The sound of his leather shoes moving across the wood floor almost echoed off the empty recesses of the bookshelves built into the wall. Mrs. Hudson must have gotten the walls re-plastered and re-wallpapered, because there were no longer bullet holes or a smiley on the wall. The jagged grooves cut into the mantelpiece denoted the spot where he used to pin his unopened correspondence.

It looked wrong now—it was all wrong.

Sherlock wondered why John had moved out. John had loved the flat—it was so obvious. And Sherlock had left him enough money to stay at Baker Street even without taking another flatmate (the very idea of which still raised Sherlock's hackles). By all rights, John should have stayed. Sherlock had been the one to leave and John, as a feeling man, should have wanted to keep the flat. People do that sort of thing because... _sentiment_.

He shrugged off his long coat and hung it on the back of the door—something he had done hundreds, if not thousands, of times while living here. It was a small step towards reclaiming this space as his own (and John's).

His feet took him into his old bedroom with blank walls and a bed with a bare mattress. He collapsed face first into the mattress and allowed his limbs to dangle over the edges. It had been almost 55 hours (too busy making his way from Warsaw back to London) since he last slept and fatigue was finally catching up to him. In the morning, he would ask Mrs. Hudson for some sheets and a pillow or two.

Maybe she would know where (his) John went.

He closed his eyes and drifted off without a second thought.

-x-x-x-

Judging by the pattern of sunlight sprayed across the walls and ceilings, it was noon. Sherlock remained still with eyes fixed on the ceiling above and listened to the sound of London around him. The traffic patterns outside confirmed his estimation of the time. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was bustling around her kitchen. Sherlock could hear everything and nothing at the same time (because 221B is empty of everything except him).

There was no use in putting it off. He needed to go downstairs and talk to his former landlady. He needed her to get him copies of today's papers. Sherlock wouldn't be able to leave the building until later at night.

He squared his shoulders and thundered down the steps to Mrs. Hudson's door. She was already pulling open the door to her flat when he came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. They stared at each other across the distance of the front hallway for several heartbeats. Then her eyes rolled back and Sherlock had to run to catch her before she hit the floor.

Ah, what was it that John used to go on and on about?

 _Tact, Sherlock._  The familiar sound of John's exasperated sigh pressed against the back of Sherlock's head.  _That_ _and timing._

Sherlock filed away her reaction and made note to refer back to it before attempting any additional reunion scenarios.

-x-x-x-

Mrs. Hudson regained consciousness some minutes later after Sherlock carried and deposited her on the sofa in her flat.

"Sherlock, is that really you?" Her voice cracked with emotions and tears welled in her eyes. With anyone else, Sherlock would have been disgusted and annoyed by such a reaction. But Jim had long ago shown him that his landlady wasn't just anyone else. In fact, a small amount of warmth had annoyingly bloomed inside his chest.

"Of course. What other explanation could there be?" He scolded her lightly, but laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. She was far too practical a woman to buy into ghosts and spirits.

"Sherlock Holmes, what in heaven's name have you done? And do you have any idea what you put poor John through?"

The next hour was a conversation about three assassins, a desperate plan aided only by one mousy pathologist, and months and months of hiding, running, and hunting. It was a conversation he would have rather had with John first, which seemed fair considering the fact that he had made John watch him jump. It only seemed right that the person to see him "die" be the first to know it was, in fact, otherwise. He also hoped that the next time he needed to have this conversation (preferably with John), it would take less time—Mrs. Hudson kept interrupting him with questions and concerns.

At the end, she pulled him into a deceptively strong hug. He endured it for her sake and her further cooperation. Before the afternoon was out, she went out and returned with a stack of that day's newspaper. By evening, Molly stopped by with the supplies from the list he texted her last night. The three of them suffered through a quiet dinner of Mrs. Hudson's roast as Sherlock kept one hand perpetually on his many mobiles or netbook.

Mycroft had been thorough, Sherlock would say at least that much. But the newspaper stories made for dry reading and were obviously vetted by his brother's people. The online reactions were far more interesting by leaps and bound. He went over to John's blog (completely untouched over the last two years). There was no new entry at the moment, but he knew John would be compelled to have his say sooner or later.

He could no longer put John out of his mind, not while he was finally back in London and the flat they'd shared (where they both belonged). He would be lying if he said he hadn't missed his doctor. Yet the word "miss" seemed lacking. Was there a word in the English language for what it felt like to live and labor with an absent organ? Gutted? Eviscerated? Or was it more appropriate to liken John's absence to a lopped off limb?

Sherlock scrubbed a tired hand over his face. He was becoming ridiculously maudlin. John had to return, if only to stop these stupid thoughts. Sherlock would insist—he couldn't function optimally like this.

He cradled one of his burner phones and dialed John's number from memory. Surely, John could realize the significance of him ringing instead of texting. It was ten at night. Surely, John would have had enough time to process the day's news by now.

After the third ring, Sherlock felt lightheaded. Right, he needed to breathe (dull dull dull). The sixth ring was cut off abruptly as his call was redirected to voicemail.

"You've reached Dr. John Watson, but I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone."

It was an utterly pedestrian message, but Sherlock committed every cadence and the sound of every phoneme John said to memory. He already had an extensive file system of John's words and conversations stored in his hard drive, enough to construct entirely new mental and imaginary conversations with the man. But the process of gathering (hoarding) more data was on-going.

He flipped the mobile lid shut. He wasn't going to leave a message. Even he thought the idea of that seemed wrong. After all, Sherlock would much rather their first contact be face-to-face (even if John punched him, even if John cursed and swore at him, even if John walked away afterwards).

(He wanted to see John again.)

-x-x-x-

John didn't answer his mobile the night after or the night after that. Phoning John was Sherlock's part of his ritual before heading out for the night (shrouded in ill-fitted street clothes and the London damp). It steeled him and reminded him why he was making poorly disguised and brief cameos across London's underworld.

He would be disgusted with what he had been reduced to, but he had (needed to) gotten over that years ago.

On the fourth night, John finally picked up his mobile. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was finally going mad with this pathetic longing (for lack of any better word, ugh!). In the brief seconds between the connection and John's first word, Sherlock had already run through all the possible scenarios. Which was a lie, because there was no actual way to predict John's reactions (because John had always been surprising and they've spent two and a half years apart forgetting one another). But there was the distinct possibility (very high and very risky) that this was the worst venue to stage a reunion on—that John, in his anger (a near certainty at 97%), may refuse to return to London.

Which was unacceptable in Sherlock's book. Because he needed John. Because John is vital to the Work ~~(is as necessary as the Work)~~.

"Who is this?" There was a note of irritation in John's voice. He'd probably been inundated with calls from reporters since the news about Moriarty came out.

Sherlock held his breath, or maybe he just forgot how to breathe again. He should hang up.

"Whoever this is, stop harassing me. I don't have any comment to give about Sherlock—"

At the sound of his name, Sherlock's heart skipped a beat—at least it did so figuratively.

"—Holmes, so leave me the bloody hell alone."

Then there was the dial tone.

Sherlock stopped trying to call John after that. He had Moran to focus on (then John could safely return to London).

-x-x-x-

London had been the central hub of James Moriarty's network—the capitol and the crown jewel of the consulting criminal's empire. After Jim passed away (self-afflicted gunshot wound through the maxilla with a gaping exit wound through the left parietal bone; Molly had been kind enough to pass him the postmortem before he left London), parts of the network fell—fighting each other tooth and nail for control and territory. While Moran had been able to rally and take lead of those closer to the top, a greater portion had fallen out of his grasp. And Sherlock had spent the last two and a half years hunting Moran's inner circle and allies and owed favors.

Over the last three months, Sherlock and Moran had been circling each other like bulldogs trapped together in a pen. In September, Sherlock foiled a total of three assassins sent to take his life in Frankfurt, Leoben, and Sicily respectively. Two weeks later, Sherlock sent a crude mail bomb to one of Moran's empty hideouts in Prague—Moran having just been there the day before surrounded by goons.

Years ago, this would have been a game for both of them. But it wasn't—not anymore, not when they're each clawing at the eroding dirt to ensure their own survival.

Colonel Sebastian Moran (formerly of the British Special Forces [SAS], dishonorably discharged for [redacted]) was a sadist and fitted the profile of a power-excitation rapist to a tee. Moran was a trained sniper, but he was even deadlier in close combat because he enjoyed feeling the life drain from the body in his clutches. Sherlock knew he had angered Moran—right and properly as John would say. So the entire affair between the two of them had become personal (because Moran would kill John to spite Sherlock and Sherlock would kill Moran to keep John safe).

Sherlock spent the last week clearing out the last of Moran's support in the London underworld—texting anonymous tips to the Met and moving evidence out into the open so that even stupid Anderson couldn't miss them. He had cut off every possible route of tactical retreat.

Moran was boxed in, and he knew it. He had been outflanked and outmaneuvered, so the only thing left for a good soldier to do was to make a direct assault on his enemy.

When Sherlock returned to the flat that Thursday night after maneuvering Mrs. Hudson into going to her sister's, he knew Moran had (finally, so much tedious waiting) come to meet him.

It started with a standoff—a gun ready to fire in Moran's hand. Then Moran did fire. Once at the space between Sherlock's shoes, and once at empty space above where Sherlock's neck joined his right shoulder. Moran discharged his revolver just to show he could—that he could easily end Sherlock in a blast of gunpowder and red hot metal.

Instead, Moran turned the safety back on and placed his firearm down on the desk by the windows. He brought up both fists to his face, before uncurling of them and inviting Sherlock over with a wave of his fingers. He wanted to toy with Sherlock.

"I'mma enjoy squeezing the life out of that scrawny neck of yours." Moran never quite lost the Midlands accent of his youth.

If Moran was a smarter man, he may have realized that it wouldn't be so easy to take down Sherlock. For one, Sherlock is younger, more agile, and a genius. That was just to name a few advantages he had over Moran. But Moran wanted to be the conquering army and 221B was Sherlock's home territory to defend.

As previously stated (Sherlock did loathe repeating himself), Moran is no Moriarty—he had neither the charisma or brains.

"You have two minutes and forty-nine seconds to try," Sherlock calmly pulled off his suit jacket, folded it, and set it aside on the floor. "Agents from MI5 will be here by then."

"All I need is one." Moran roared and charged at Sherlock, crossing the living room in just four quick strides.

They crashed into the kitchen partition, shattering the bright multi-colored glass arrangement into pieces to be ground underneath their grappling bodies. Sherlock wasn't averse to fighting dirty—not if it gave him the advantage. John could worry about honor or a fair fight—if he really wanted to (because John was capable of ignoring that if the need arose and lives were at stake). Sherlock simply needed to win.

Moran pulled him up by the lapels of Sherlock's shirt. They walked back until the back of the kitchen table collided with the small of Sherlock's back. He broke out of Moran's grip and slammed Moran's face into the table surface with all the force he could muster. Moran gave a gurgle of pain, twisted, and kicked—his feet catching against Sherlock's knee. Sherlock retaliated by snapping the food tray that Mrs. Hudson used to bring up lunch earlier today over Moran's head. The wood splintered and cracked in half.

Moran's fist flew through the gap between the broken pieces and slammed into Sherlock's nose. Flailing, Sherlock quickly blinked to clear the black spots in his vision and jabbed the jagged edges of the tray into Moran's throat. Moran caught the wood first and tossed it aside. There are long seconds where Moran's fingers found purchase around Sherlock's neck and squeezed.

Over the sound of their panting and breathing, Sherlock could hear the street door downstairs being knocked in. One minute and fifty-eight seconds. Mycroft had mobilized his people even faster than usual. Or Moran could somehow still have backup. Two people were taking the seventeen stairs up to the flat two at a time. By the time Moran realized what was going on and tries to reach his discarded firearm, Mycroft and Anthea were through the door and into the flat.

Anthea dropped her phone without a second thought and met Moran halfway across the living room. Sherlock had always suspected that she was more than a PA, but he never had any solid proof otherwise. He struggled to sit up from where Moran left him face planted into the lino by the sink. He managed in time to see her use the momentum of her body to sweep larger man to the floor while trapped between her thighs. Moran didn't get the chance to retaliate before her next blow knocked him unconscious.

"Moran is secured, sir." Her outfit remained somehow impeccable despite her exertion. "Pickup should be here in under a minute. The Met will be two minutes behind them."

"Very good, we should go before then, Sherlock." Mycroft offered a hand to help Sherlock to his feet.

He slapped the hand aside, ignoring his brother's scowl. He didn't need Mycroft's help—not really. He could have finished Moran on his own, but Mycroft must really have wanted Moran alive if he made an appearance in person. "No one asked you to come, Mycroft. I had everything handled."

Mycroft's expression and his fingers clasped around his umbrella handle clenched and twitched.

"Yes, handled." Anthea was staring pointedly at Sherlock's neck, where finger-shaped bruises were no doubt starting to show.

Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock's elbow and tried to guide him out the door. Sherlock tore his arm out of his brother's grip and glared. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You've done your part." He tried to escape into his bedroom instead.

"No, Sherlock!" Mycroft's umbrella shot up and blocked off Sherlock's flight. "We are going to talk about your stunt tonight. You heard Anthea, the police will be here shortly and the press will not be far behind. Unless you'd rather Doctor Watson find out about your return in the news tomorrow, I suggest you come with me."

His shoulders slumped in defeat. The thought of John's anger ( _I had to find out from t_ _he sodding papers, Sherlock! The papers!_ ) quelled the last of his rebellion. So when Mycroft ducked out the front door, Sherlock followed noisily behind him. Anthea stayed behind to watch Moran and had already retrieved her fallen Blackberry from the floor. One of Mycroft's black cars was waiting with the engine idling. After his brother got into the vehicle, Sherlock stood resolutely by the curb for a few moments. By then, several vans were pulling up with MI5 agents spilling out to secure the scene. The neighbors poured out onto the streets with mobiles and cameras in hand. It was this that finally prompted Sherlock to throw himself into the seat across from his brother. Mycroft gave two brief raps against the partition between them and the driver, and they took off onto the streets of London.

Mycroft crossed his legs primly while Sherlock ignored the other man in favor of the city flying by. His brother's opening salvo was so trite that he couldn't stop the snort.

"What you did tonight was reckless. You had no backup. You sent Mrs. Hudson away."

He could almost hear Mycroft's teeth grind from across the space dividing them. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kindly piss off, Mycroft. I knew you were watching me from the moment I left your office days ago. You got what you wanted. So spare me the lecture."

Mycroft slammed the tip of his umbrella on the car floor, unable to keep his voice from rising. "What I want, Sherlock, is for my little brother to stop risking his life—unnecessarily—without any regard to the people he leaves behind or those who have to clean up his mess. How was I to explain to Mummy if we hadn't gotten there in time tonight? Or to John?"

Sherlock's head turned sharply at Mycroft's last word and snarled, "You would have told them _nothing_. I was already dead. Don't make them mourn twice."

His brother's features had collected and settled into their usual placid arrangement. Sherlock knew it to be a lie and he wanted nothing more than to rip Mycroft of all his pretenses. "So you are aware that there were those of us who mourned your passing?"

He could explain to Mycroft that he had grieved too—that he had mourned the comforts of  _before_ : the interesting puzzles, Baker Street, his violin, John... He could tell his brother that he had felt loss too. But he won't, because these were not thoughts he would ever choose to share with Mycroft. He screwed his face into a sneer instead, even if the expression rarely had any effect on his brother. "Let me out here."

"Please, Sherlock, you need to go to a safehouse until everything is cleared."

"Let me out now, or I will throw myself into traffic."

Mycroft sighed and tapped against the driver partition. Sherlock was out the door before the car even came to a complete stop at the curb.

"I just want to help," Mycroft called after him.

"You can help by making sure Moran never sees the light of day again!" he declared without looking back. Sherlock drew his collar up and jammed his hands into his coat pocket. Rain had picked up once again. He hurried along the damp pavement. Molly's flat was nearly a mile away from his current location. He would hide out there again until he could return to Baker Street (to John).

-x-x-x-

Moran's arrest was all over the news come morning. Over the breakfast table, Molly shot him curious glances that he ignored stalwartly in favor of some rather dry toast. She sighed, changed into her scrubs, and told him that she should be back by six. He may have nodded, but he was too busy scanning through the online articles to see what was being reported.

The rest of the day passed in fits of nervous energy and mind-numbing ennui. By the time Molly returned, he had managed to con his way into information about John's debit card spending. The most recent purchase was for a week's reservation at a guest house in Saint Ives. What in the blazes was John doing in Cornwall in the middle of October? Either way, it meant that John was probably not going to be returning to London any time soon. The subsequent frustration made Sherlock want to tear at his hair.

He was almost tempted to ring John's mobile again. Almost.

It was almost midnight before anything of interest happened. He was sprawled listlessly across Molly's sofa when his mobile chimed. He thumbed absently at the notification, half expecting it to be Mycroft annoying him again already.

 _A new entry has been posted on_ ** _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_**.

He needed a bigger screen to read John's post, which would be undoubtedly sentimental and long-winded while missing all the most important details. In his mind's eye, he could picture John laboriously pecking at the keys to his laptop while composing the post in some nondescript room in Saint Ives. Sherlock's first attempt to load John's blog earned him a 502 error (sudden uptick in traffic due to the recent news). He glared furiously at the screen before reloading the page. It took several more attempts before the server yielded its treasure.

The new entry was titled:  **The** **Reichenbach** **Fall.**

_I owe you a fall, Sherlock._

It was hard to deny the sudden surge of bile rising in his throat. What a grim/regretful/maudlin/ _perfect_ title! Perhaps one of John's rare moments of literary genius. Even Sherlock could appreciate that much.

The entry began:  

> _Some of you may still remember the case that first made Sherlock's name almost three years ago: the recovery of the painting called_ **_Falls of_ ** **_Reichenbach_ ** _. Some of the papers even proclaimed him as the "hero of_ _Reichenbach_ _." In retrospect, even long before Moriarty made a play at the crown jewels, I can now see that had been the beginning of the end._

It continued from there, recounting the events of their last case together (the kidnapped children of the American ambassador, who had already come forward last year after the boy and the girl recovered from mercury poisoning and undergone several months of therapy to say that Sherlock had not kidnapped them) to their final meeting at Barts'. He tried not to think about it, but it was chilling to read about their encounter from John's point of view—so full of terror and later guilt.

> _I will never understand why he said what he did. Although Sherlock was many things, he was most definitely never a fraud. I never believed otherwise for even a second. And I know there are many of you out there who also believed in him, who campaigned for the truth. Well, the truth is out now. James Moriarty was every bit the master criminal that I knew. While I'll never get my best friend back, at least the world now knows—beyond the shadow of a doubt—just how human and brilliant Sherlock Holmes really was._
> 
> _I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes._

Oh, John, ever faithful and ever loyal... Sherlock certainly didn't deserve it, but he wanted it—wanted John back.

Commenting on the entry was disabled, a preemptive attempt to stem the tide of people who would want their own say. People were instead commenting in some of the older posts. John probably wasn't going to check his email either. There was no way to reach his blogger except by phone.

He must have read the entry at least a dozen times. After he had it memorized, the words played on a constant loop inside his head—all narrated by John's voice. He must have spent hours poring over and analyzing the syntax and the word choice in John's composition. Because Sherlock blinked before looking at the clock in corner of the dark living room. It read 5:32—early morning then. He rose from his supine position on the sofa, stretching as his joints popped back into place.

His mind was made up. He needed to do something to get John to come back to London without giving himself away.

Molly was still fast asleep when he slipped into her bedroom. He froze when she shifted and flopped over onto the other side of her bed with her back turned and taking half the duvet with her. If she woke up now, she was going to make a racket over privacy and things (John always did when he found Sherlock sneaking into his room). Her mobile was sitting on her nightstand and being charged. She didn't even bother to lock it or set a pass code.

John Watson was the last contact on Molly's list. Previous history showed that she had taken the initiative a few days ago and sent John a text asking where he was. John never replied.

It was a good indication that John was not likely to respond to anything else sent from Molly's number.

Instead, he typed and sent one simple command:  _Come home._

-x-x-x-

Sherlock was finally allowed to go back to 221B the next day. He begrudgingly accepted Anthea's escort back to his flat after she turned up at Molly's door around eight in the morning. Mrs. Hudson had returned from her sister's and caught him at the door to lecture him for "destroying her bloody flat again." When he finally escaped upstairs, he found boxes and boxes of his belongings that he had left behind. He would have to buy an entirely new chemistry set as Mrs. Hudson donated his previous one before Mycroft's people could get to it.

Going through his belongings gave Sherlock something to do as John did not immediately come rushing back at the prompt of his (Molly's) text. He sawed at his beloved violin, which he was reunited with at long last. Two searches through the storm of boxes didn't turn up the skull, leading Sherlock to the conclusion that John had taken it. Which left him feeling both annoyed and touched(? [file away for further analysis]). It also left him with no conversation partner, forcing him to settle for speaking to an absent John as if his words would find their way to the man over 400 kilometers away.

After all, it was a given that John would return. He had to.

But John's shadow didn't darken the hallway of 221B's threshold the next day or the day after that. Another peek into the doctor's debit transaction showed that he was still in Saint Ives. It was an unacceptable state of affairs, but there was no way to compel John without revealing himself.

Sherlock had never been a particularly patient man.

Five days after Moran's arrest (four days after sending John that text from Molly's phone), Sherlock crawled out of bed to find the rest of the living room furniture returned and Mycroft sitting in John's old armchair. He turned around and went right back into the kitchen. It was too early to deal with Mycroft without caffeine first, and since John had still yet to return, Sherlock needed to fend for himself.

Wrapped in his bedsheets (why bother getting dressed? He had nowhere to go on the account of still being technically dead), he settled on the newly returned settee with a mug of instant coffee. Mrs. Hudson had left the day's paper on the coffee table so he pulled it into his lap and hoped his brother would take the hint.

No such luck.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started with a drawl. "The paperwork for your return is in the works. Your financial assets will take a bit longer to sort out. You may want to start thinking about how to handle the press once news of your return gets out. And Mummy will wish to see you."

The last part made Sherlock wince. He wondered how long he would be able to put that off until his mother simply came down to London herself.

His brother continued, "As you have done nothing in the last four days except sulk like a child, I have taken the liberty of contacting Dr. Watson."

He threw the paper back on the coffee table, scattering the newsprint to Mycroft's apparent disapproval. "You fat, meddling bastard," Sherlock snarled as he tightly gripped the arms of his seat to keep himself rooted. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing regarding you, Sherlock. I believe that honor should fall to you. I simply requested that John return to London in four days' time so that he and I may meet," Mycroft gestured to the rest of the room with his umbrella. "Here."

"I don't need your help!"

"No, you think you don't but you do and you have it regardless. I know you may never forgive me for what happened with James Moriarty, but there is little I can do now to change the past."

Sherlock continued to glare at his brother, who held his gaze in return. After a moment, Mycroft broke off the stare to consult his pocket watch (pretentious git). He must have an appointment, because he stood and walked past Sherlock. Good, Sherlock couldn't wait for Mycroft to get out of his hair for good.

His brother paused in the doorway and spoke without turning to face Sherlock, "Try not to botch this, Sherlock. Evidence would suggest that the good doctor is no longer as keen on London as he once was."

And then Mycroft was finally gone—the door closing with a gentle thud. Sherlock was, once again, alone with just his thoughts.

-x-x-x-

Wants and desires were dangerous. Sherlock knew that. Just as he knew that  _caring was not an advantage_. John would argue otherwise; he put a lot of stock on that caring lark.

It had taken two and a half years away to learn just how disgustingly human he really was.

How was he to explain everything to John and make him understand? Surely, John would have to understand ( _no, friends protect people_ ). He wasn't going to apologize for what he did (maybe for the fallout that followed) and he will remain firm on that point. He had done what was necessary in the given circumstances. In utilitarian terms, three lives was always worth more than one. And he hadn't really died or sacrificed (no, he did sacrifice, but he didn't know how much at first).

But he already knew that John was not going to see it that way.

He glanced at the time on his mobile screen. Half past one. Where was John? Four days have come and gone.

His phone chimed.

_He's on his way._  
 _M_

He spun around and took one last look around the sitting room. He hadn't finished unpacking yet so the room was even more of a mess. At least he had the chance to redecorate with spraypaint and bullet holes. The wall had been positively offensive without the Smiley face graffiti. He moved over to the window overlooking the streets below and parted the curtains just enough to look through.

Within two minutes, the recognizable figure of John Watson was strolling up Baker Street (took the Tube, no limp) and caused the muscle in Sherlock's chest to flutter arrhythmically. Downstairs the knob turned loudly and was followed by the telltale creak of the door falling open.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called.

His voice (still the same but pitched just slightly lower than Sherlock remembered) sent a spike of rare panic racing down his spine. He twirled and considered all the ways he could arrange himself for John to find. None of the six positions in the sitting room seemed adequate. John's heavy tread on the staircase finally jolted him into action and he swiftly moved to place himself in the corner of the kitchen (partition restored days ago by Mycroft, no doubt). John would not see him immediately upon entering and he was going to be too busy gawking at the mess.

Yes, this position would afford him an advantage and give Sherlock the chance to observe his friend without John knowing.

John froze upon entering the room, eyes darting wildly across all the boxes scattered around. His gait was even as he moved toward the boxes with his name on them, but he was starting to lean his weight on the right leg (something John always did unconsciously in times of emotional discomfort). Sherlock couldn't see John's face yet except for a brief moment in profile. John's hair was grayer than it used to be, but still mostly a dirty dishwater blond.

"Mycroft!" John roared suddenly.

Sherlock clamped down on the desire to reveal himself. He needed more time.

When John sank to his knees with his entire body swaying, Sherlock knew he had underestimated John's state of emotional well-being. He tapped out a text on his brand new phone:  _Behind you. SH_

John was reaching into his jacket pocket and his hand tremor was visible all the way from the kitchen. His shoulders were tensing as he read over the message on the screen. Sherlock left his hiding place and slowly approached his friend. John's body gave a shudder as Sherlock neared.

"John." Sherlock savored the way the name (common and ordinary) rolled off his tongue.

His friend, in turn, twisted around and stared up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. John clenched his fists but didn't release them (not a good sign according to Sherlock's mental catalog of John's reactions).

"Say something." Sherlock did his best to hide his nervousness and he was pretty sure he succeeded. Because John was too shaken and shocked to register anything properly, muttering about Jesus and clones. There was still a chilling fear seeping into his bones. Sherlock can see the rigid set of John's shoulder, trapped between a fight-or-flight response.

Then he realized. John was on the verge of a panic attack—of hyperventilating. Sherlock knew that if John got to his feet somehow, his friend was going to bolt.

The idea of John running from him terrified him more than he would like to admit.

He swooped down to meet John eye to eye. He barely masked the tremor of his own hands when he threaded his fingers around the curve of John's shoulders and tentatively kneaded the tense muscles. As long as he kept John here—here on the floor of 221B—John couldn't run away.

It was probably best to start with the basics. John didn't look ready to hear the full details of the story yet, so Sherlock spoke in short and concise sentences and willed the words to all sink in. "John, I'm here. I didn't die. I had to finish what Moriarty started. But I've come back."

Something in John's eyes changed. They were still darting back and forth, trying to process all the details of Sherlock's face and lingering briefly on the scar behind his ear. But John was finally fully there with Sherlock, greedy for affirmations and reassurance. It almost stole Sherlock's breath away.

He leaned in closer, wanting to banish every distance between him and John. "Do you believe me?"

He needed John to believe this. He needed John to believe in him. Sherlock needed it so badly that it physically hurt.

Relief flooded Sherlock's system as John nodded ever so slightly (and his dark blue eyes still wide with amazement). And when John hugged him, something inside Sherlock slotted back into place. The unmistakable feeling of coming home.

In that moment of unadulterated joy, it seemed like everything (the two of them, Sherlock's reputation, John's heart, their irreplaceable friendship) was going to be just  _fine._

-x-x-x-

Except not everything was alright again. At least not for a while.


	2. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to what-once-was is long and winding, with no end in sight.

John was so reluctant to break contact with Sherlock because he craved it so badly that there was a physical ache. Every patch of skin where they touched burned with heat. But the hug was beginning to run long (even after accounting for the circumstances of the last time they saw each other and the years that separated them since). The last thing John needed was for Sherlock to deduce the exact depth of John's feelings for him. He barely had time to process it himself.

John Watson loved and was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

The space between their bodies—just mere inches in reality—seemed impossibly wide. John had to taper down the desire to crawl inside his best friend and never leave. He was officially losing his mind.

"Explain." He needed Sherlock to fill the silence. He needed Sherlock to talk and provide data that John could mull over and use to confirm Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock managed to stay seated for almost the first full minute of his explanation, before climbing to his feet to pace frantic and well-practiced circles around boxes. The man was all unrelenting energy and swinging limbs, and John couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock barely took a breath as he walked John through what really happened on the roof of St. Bart's.

(Wait, Molly? Molly Hooper?)

"I have a recording of my conversation with Moriarty if you'd like," Sherlock offered as he fiddled with one of his jacket buttons. John shook his head so fast that he thought his neck might snap (maybe when the thought of hearing Moriarty from beyond the grave didn't make him want to vomit anymore).

Sherlock absently palmed his violin briefly in the middle of an off-topic rant about Bulgarian cuisine. The taller man talked for a long while, never taking more than the briefest of pause. John was having a hard time keeping all the information straight and Sherlock was not helping with the overload as he occasionally went off on more nervous tangents. But John couldn't help getting the feeling that there was just as much that Sherlock wasn't telling him.

He didn't feel he had the right to ask though (but he wanted to, he wanted to know everything so badly), because he couldn't reciprocate either. There was no way he could tell Sherlock exactly what he had been doing over the last two years. Or worse, what had just happened last week before returning to London.

John was both relieved and disappointed when Sherlock made no effort to ask after him (the selfish, selfish bastard).

Sherlock had been in London for weeks now, even before the news about Moriarty broke. "Why didn't you call me? Or text me? Or email me?" John finally asked after Sherlock finished recounting his encounter with Sebastian Moran.

"If I did," Sherlock became very still. "Would you have come?"

They stared at each other, holding the other's gaze for far too long to be considered completely platonic to the rest of the world. This had caused the better part of the misunderstandings regarding their relationship in the past. John felt so stupid to be meeting those expectations now.

He dropped his gaze before answering Sherlock's question. "No, probably not."

It was a lie though. John had promised once in front of Sherlock's empty grave that he would cross oceans to meet the man if he only asked. But he wouldn't tell Sherlock that. Just as he wouldn't take his friend into another embrace and never let go. Just as he wouldn't kiss Sherlock to see if those lips were was plump and as lush as they looked. Just as he wouldn't tell the man he had somehow gone and fallen in love with him while he was away—that maybe the feeling had been there for much longer.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock?" He sounded exhausted even to his own ears.

_What do you want from me?_

"Will you move back?" It didn't even sound like a question coming from Sherlock's mouth. It was more a command—a demand.

His mind froze and started panicking. He didn't know why and Sherlock's eyes were all too bright (too excited).

John immediately lowered his gaze. "I need some time first."

-x-x-x-

John was still dazed when he stumbled past Mary's threshold at a quarter to seven. As soon as he entered the house, he could smell her cooking and concluded they were having Italian for dinner. He made a beeline to the kitchen and to the bottle of red wine sitting on the counter-top at Mary's elbow. He barely acknowledged her greeting as he poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp.

"John, what's wrong?" The sudden onset of alarm was clear in her voice. She placed down her cooking utensil and her alert blue eyes were scanning across the length of his body in search of some sign or injury.

John braced his arms against the counter and let his head hang for several moments. How was he even going to begin to explain this mess to Mary? He started when her hand landed on his bicep and squeezed gently.

"John, talk to me."

He kept his eyes fixed on the whorls on the counter-top. "It's Sherlock. I saw him today. He's alive."

Mary had gone completely still at his announcement. He could practically hear the gears in her head churning, much as his had earlier, trying to run through a list of all possible supernatural creatures and phenomenon. People don't just come back from the dead (not without paying a heavy price first). Not that Sherlock had actually been dead, but the infuriating man had always been bent on being unlike the rest of the world.

"Are you sure it's actually him?"

John scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "I think so. He faked his death, Mary, he faked his death this entire time to dismantle Moriarty's network. All that news about Moriarty and Moran last week was basically his coming-back party. What kind of man does all that?"

He finally turned to face her, watching as all sorts of emotions warred for control of her facial features. John suddenly felt self-conscious and selfish. He hadn't even thought about how Mary would feel before bringing this news into her home. Sherlock had come back, but Will was never going to do that. Mary's face had settled into a blank mask, but it was impossible to hide the hurt in her eyes.

"Your Sherlock's an immense bastard," she eventually said.

John squeezed his eyes shut and murmured brokenly, "Yes, yes, he is."

She turned off the heat on the cooker and pulled him into her arms. John didn't bother to resist and welcomed the comfort she offered. Most importantly, she wasn't rejecting him after hearing about Sherlock.

"Is it okay if I stay here for a bit longer? I'm not ready to go back to Baker Street yet."

Her arms tightened around his shoulders. "Of course, you're always welcomed in my house. And we will come up with some truly uncomfortable tests to subject your Sherlock to so we can verify his authenticity. Then I may or may not knock out his teeth for being so cruel."

A dam of warmth burst inside John and he smothered his chuckles in the folds of her hair. For the first time since he saw Sherlock earlier, John actually felt that things might work out with both Sherlock back and Mary standing at his side. He could do this—one step at a time.

-x-x-x-

It was astonishing how quickly John's relief faded despite a night of wine and conversation with Mary ("Definitely need to feed him some holy water"; "And how do I manage that? The man sustains on biscuits and caffeine alone. [Long pause] Do you think holy water still works if you use it to brew tea?"). But standing at the door to Molly's office, just down the hall from the morgue itself, he can't help but think about the betrayal stabbing at his gut.

He knocked on the door. When there was no immediate answer, he wondered if Molly was taking a late lunch or if he should have texted or called ahead of his visit. John was about to walk away—feeling somewhat glad to relegate this particular meeting to another day—when the office door flew open. Molly appeared, clad in her pastel pink scrubs and her disheveled hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail.

"John!" she exclaimed. Surprise flitted across her face before apprehension quickly took its place.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked, watching her shift restlessly.

"No, it's fine. I was just about to take a coffee break. Please come in."

In all the years that he's known Molly, John had never been inside her office. It was actually a shared space with the other morgue attendant (did Andy still work at Bart's?), judging by the two desks facing opposite walls. Molly dragged over the swivel chair from the other desk and offered it to John before sitting in her own chair. John noted the lack of windows contributing to the overall feeling of claustrophobia.

"A bit dreary, wouldn't you say?"

Molly snickered as some of the tension bleed out of her body. "Yeah, it's a good thing I get to spend most of my time in the labs or morgue anyway. But I can't really do paperwork over the slabs."

"Indeed, where would the NHS be without paperwork?" He eyed the stack of manila folders balanced precariously on the edge of her desk. It was the one aspect he missed least about practicing medicine.

"Is this about Sherlock? Did you finally see him?"

Of course, she figured out the reason for his visit today. For better or for worse, Molly had been an accomplice in Sherlock's scheme—the lynchpin even. She was smarter and more perceptive than she was often given credit for. And the sickening feeling of betrayal returned. (Why hadn't Sherlock told him? He was a soldier, he had always been prepared for the risk. Why had he trusted Molly over John—who needed him, who loved him, who would have done close to anything for Sherlock?)

"He did tell you, right? That he did it to save your life." Molly leaned forward in her seat, eager to explain and eager to dispel any misunderstanding.

John knew that. Sherlock had explained Moriarty's final play and the three gunmen assigned to himself, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't begrudge Sherlock for trying to save them—for wanting to save them. But John could sure as hell question Sherlock's methods and all the other moving cogs in his grand plan, especially inviting Molly, who had looked him in the eye afterwards (after the funeral; inviting him to holiday parties) and lied through her teeth, to be his accomplice.

"You knew from the start." John couldn't stop the bitterness from bleeding through. "You never said a thing."

She folded her hands in her lap and went preternaturally still. "I'm sorry, but Sherlock asked me to keep it a secret."

Molly (so-obviously-in-love-with-Sherlock Molly) must have been so flattered to be the only one to keep Sherlock Holmes' great secret. Bile and nausea (and bone-grating jealousy) swirled together in a sickening maelstrom. Why her? Why Molly Hooper of all people?

"Because I don't count, not like you." Her sudden declaration broke his dark reverie. John hadn't realized he had spoken his last thought aloud. Molly was watching him with a small sad smile that made her look years older.

"What?"

"Before he even knew about Greg or Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock knew Jim was going to target you. He had already planned everything in order to save you. It was always about you, John."

He blinked in disbelief, waiting for her words to sink in. He couldn't swallow past the heavy feeling lodged in his throat. "No, he did it to beat Moriarty."

It was all for the game, the thrill of the hunt. Those were the things Sherlock cared about. Because Sherlock didn't feel things, not like other people and certainly not for other people (which is fine, it's all fine).

"If you say so," Molly's expression said she was disinclined to believe his line of reasoning. "You know Sherlock far better than I do."

Did he really?

Molly's break was over so he walked her to the morgue after she locked up her office. They stood awkwardly at the morgue's entrance, neither sure of what else to say as they would surely see each other again in he near future. After a moment's indecision, he embraced her briefly and whispered, "Thank you for being there for him." Because no matter what his conflicted feelings about her involvement, Molly Hooper had helped Sherlock to survive so that he could eventually return to London. He had to thank her for at least that much.

John made it less than several meters away from the morgue when Sherlock turned a corner. They both stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Probably would have been in people's way if the basement wasn't usually deserted on principle. Sherlock's eyes swept up and down the length of John's body. No doubt deducing what he had for breakfast or how he slept.

John squared his shoulders and marched toward his friend. "Sherlock," he offered a small smile in greeting. "How are you doing?"

The tension bled out of Sherlock. There was no noticeable change in his posture or stance (just the smoothing out of certain lines on Sherlock's face and the smallest change in the shape of his eyes), and anyone else wouldn't have noticed the change. But John wasn't just anyone else. He lived with this madman for over a year.

He loved this madman for even longer.

"John," Sherlock canted his head a few degrees to the right. Then he straightened, trying to make himself all tall and imperious (God, John missed this arrogance; why the hell did he miss that?). "Have you thought about what we talked about?"

Right, the flatshare—221B Baker Street again. The thought still sat uncomfortably with John. He shouldn't let Sherlock weasel back into his life so easily. Not after what he did or knowing how the detective was going to eat up all of John's time or thoughts before he could blink. John shouldn't, but some part of him already knew he was going to relent (it was the only solution of all possible solutions). But John could still maintain some illusion of control over his life (himself) until then.

"I'll ring you. We can talk about this later. I'm afraid I have somewhere to be." He dodged around the other man and headed for the stairwell. He wasn't going to wait around for the lift so that Sherlock would have more time to harass him.

"John!"

John saw the twitch coursing through Sherlock's right arm. It was a prelude to Sherlock trying to physically detain him, to force him to listen to the list of reasons well-rehearsed from Sherlock's mind. So John broke into a run, slipping past the taller man's uneasy grasp while feeling the faintest tug on his jacket sleeve. He didn't look back before ducking into the stairs, and Sherlock didn't follow.

John may be in love, but he refused to play the lovesick fool.

-x-x-x-

John's decision to not immediately move back to 221B was vindicated before the end of the week when Sherlock was revealed to be very much not dead. It started with a series of photos taken by a discerning London citizen while trailing a man she recognized as Sherlock Holmes into a Tesco. The photos apparently went viral within hours of being posted online. Then the 24-hour news cycle picked up on the online speculation (seriously and jokingly ranging from clones to an actor in an upcoming biopic) and it took off from there.

Baker Street was once again mobbed by the press. John dreaded to think about exactly how Sherlock was dealing with the renewed media attention.

_Your marksmanship would be most appreciated right now. Then again it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel with how packed they are. SH_

John stared at the message for five whole minutes before responding _._

_They'd probably leave you alone if you gave a statement. Or give a few interviews._

_I'd rather be tortured by Japanese mobsters. Again. SH_

God, he really hoped Sherlock was just kidding.

_You could have Mycroft prepare one on your behalf._

There was no immediate reply. Which was odd because Sherlock always felt compelled to have the last word and John doubted that pretending to be dead made Sherlock feel less inclined to do otherwise. So he was forced to assume that Sherlock had finally lost his temper and possibly killed or traumatized some of the reporters with one of his ungodly experiments.

He shrugged to himself and returned to packing rock salt into empty shotgun rounds. As long as he wasn't expected to bail his old flatmate out of jail...

-x-x-x-

When a statement was released the next day revealing Sherlock's consultant role in MI5 and Interpol's Moriarty investigation, John burst into uncontrollable laughter at the breakfast table. It was an utterly ridiculous tale about how Sherlock's fake demise was engineered as part of the undercover operation to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. Mary was so startled by the sound that she spilled her bowl of milk and cereal on the kitchen lino.

"What the hell, John?" She cursed before bending down to wipe the floor with a tea towel.

For some reason, listening to her blaspheme set off another fit of giggles. Then he looked down at the old archive photo of Sherlock in a deerstalker paired with the article and began howling anew. He had to clutch his sides to keep from hurting and falling out of his chair. Mary gaped at him like he had lost his mind—when really, anyone that knew Sherlock could see the cover story was complete bollocks.

He slid the paper across the table and pointed to the story in question. She scrunched her brow together as she skimmed the first few lines and remained confused when she looked up at him. "I don't get it."

That was because she'd never met Sherlock—didn't know him in spite of all the stories John told her. Because if she knew him, she'd see why. Except he wasn't sure how to begin to explain the hilarity of the situation to her. God, he missed Sherlock so much right now. Sherlock must be fuming right now.

The text alert chime from his mobile sounded positively livid. It must be from Sherlock.

_Be prepared to post bail on my behalf. I am going to murder Mycroft. SH_

He was vibrating with unsuppressed glee as he replied: _You'd have to leave the flat somehow first._ He doubted the reporters were going to leave the front stoop any time soon after this bombshell.

 _I'm never going to live this down. Immediately retiring to the countryside to raise bees_. _SH_

_Really? Bees? Why bees?_

_Shut up, they're interesting. SH_

_And Mycroft's allergic to them. The perfect murder weapon. SH_

John actually felt kind of sorry for Mycroft there. He had seen enough cases of near-fatal anaphylactic shock in his A&E experience to know it wasn't a pretty sight.

_Not a terribly creative murder weapon though._

_Irrelevant, it's effective. Will need to have him stung the next time he comes by the flat. SH_

_On principle, I have to advise against fratricide. Because apparently no one else will._

_If you'd move back, you could stop me yourself. Or help. Either works. SH_

_We'll see._

_I'd be doing both of us a favor if I did kill Mycroft. SH_

John's face hurt from smiling. He wondered if he really had cause to feel this happy. But Sherlock was reaching out to him—albeit in his own awkward and endearing way. When Mary gently squeezed his good shoulder on her way out to work, John felt lighter than he's had in years.

-x-x-x-

John wasn't surprised when Lestrade finally contacted him and invited him out for a night of drinks. In fact, he was more surprised that the DS hadn't sought him out sooner. Sliding into the stool next to Lestrade, John greeted, "We have to stop meeting like this."

The police officer snorted and John accepted the extra pint offered to him. Lestrade was even grayer than he last remembered. With a pang of guilt, John realized he hadn't seen the man since Molly's Christmas party.

"How are things down at the Yard?" John asked.

"It's been a mess, but you probably guessed that. But it is nice not being treated like the leper of the department anymore. What about you? How are you holding up?" Lestrade gave him a significant look. "Sherlock said you two already talked."

"Surprisingly well. Has he gone to see you yet?"

"I went to see him actually, as soon as I saw the papers. It was probably a good thing as some of those reporters were ready to break down the front door. The first thing he asked me for as soon as I walked in the door was for a case. No 'hello' or explanation. I nearly socked the bastard right there."

"Oh, I know the feeling," John sighed. "Poor Mrs. H, trapped with Sherlock like that. He must be even more batty than usual."

"Tell me about it. Where have you been hiding? I noticed you've barely been mentioned in the news and you two used to be inseparable."

"With Mary, she lives in South Harrow. It only gets bad when I come into central London."

"Mary from the party?"

John nodded.

"Good on you, mate."

He was glad Lestrade chose not to ask any further questions about the nature of his relationship with Mary. They lapsed into a few minutes of silence as they watched the football game. Sometimes, he could feel people's stares on his back but did his best to ignore them. Nowadays, John often got significant passing glances from passersby.

Lestrade was the first one to speak again. "He apologized, you know?"

"Really? Sherlock did?"

"Well, his exact words were more along the line of 'Lestrade, it's unfortunate that you were placed in a difficult situation that you obviously didn't have the capability to resolve yourself'."

"Please tell me you punched him after that."

"I may have tried."

They looked at each other with similar shit-eating grins. When John's mobile chirped in his jacket, he drew it out to read the message.

_At least return the skull if you're unwilling to move back in the meanwhile. SH_

"He bugging you with non-stop texts too? He keeps sending me tips about petty crimes that aren't even in my division. I told him that I no longer had the authority to let him on crime scenes anymore. And you know what he said? He was working on getting me promoted again." Lestrade was rolling his eyes in exasperation, but there was a touch of fondness in the way his eyes crinkled.

He passed his phone over so the other man could read the message too. "Sherlock's just eager to have things return to the way they were."

"Can't say I blame him. Are you really considering moving back in with him?" Lestrade pointed at the message on the screen.

"It's a nice flat." John protested. He didn't like the tone of Lestrade's question.

"Look, I'm not opposed to getting the band back together. God knows having you around always made Sherlock easier to deal with. But think about your own life, John. You two were practically joined at the hip before. Now might be a good time to establish some new boundaries and give yourself some space. What about Mary?"

"What about her? We're not dating or whatever you're thinking. She's just a friend."

"Geeze, Watson, is that how fucked up all your relationships are now? Okay, fine, so Mary's a friend. But what about in the future? Or if you meet some other bird? You and Sherlock could still remain friends without moving back with him. I've seen how he used to run you ragged. Do you think that's going to change now?"

John stared into his beer, turning Lestrade's words over and over again inside his head. He had already considered a lot of the same thing since Sherlock first returned. He knows that if he went back to Sherlock—if he let Sherlock back into his life, John was never going to let go of him again. That he would do everything in his power to keep Sherlock for the rest of his days. But such a possessive and needy realization was best kept to himself. Instead, John tried to shrug noncommittally. "It's ridiculous really. He's been back for less than two weeks, but I already can't imagine life without him."

When he looked up at his drinking companion again, Lestrade wore an expression that could only read "you poor sod" and patted John over the back as a show of support.

-x-x-x-

Over the next two weeks, he and Mary closed two cases together: a poltergeist haunting a family in Slough and a small group of demons wrecking havoc in Southfields. The jobs helped to keep John occupied in the times between Sherlock's texts.

At first, the text conversations started once per day and usually limited to the early afternoon hours. Soon, they were coming at all hours of the day, whether John replied or not. Some were trivia facts about honey bees that Sherlock apparently felt necessary to share. Then there were the scathing deductions about the few reporters and paparazzi still brave enough to hang around Baker Street. Even more were attempts to convince John to move back to the flat asap, complete with idle threats of experimenting on John's leftover properties or of turning his old bedroom into a laboratory if he didn't return soon. Each time Sherlock asked, John found himself internally caving to the suggestion more and more.

Even without physically being there, Sherlock was taking over and filling in all the empty spaces in John's life again.

Despite the fact that John still had no gainful employment and he was sometimes stalked by paparazzi when he left Mary's house, life almost felt normal again. Well, whatever passed for normal when one lived and worked with Sherlock Holmes.

As November came to a close, the text messages alone were no longer enough. Neither were the blurry and often hilarious photos of Sherlock published in the rags or shared online. He missed Sherlock, missed the sound of his voice, missed seeing his face... John buried his face in his pillow, hoping suffocation would spare him the shame of pining like a teenage girl.

His mobile started vibrating loudly against the surface of the nightstand—probably more texts from Sherlock. The skull also sat on the nightstand, mocking him with its macabre grin.

_Mrs. Hudson has confiscated my gun. Bring yours at once. SH_

The wave of longing that washed over John was as intense as it was painful. Suddenly, he couldn't stand the smell of Mary's house or the all too quiet traffic from her street. As John had always been a man of action, he did the only thing left to do at this point: pack. He stuffed what he could of his clothing into his duffel bag and stowed his Browning under layers of denim. He wrapped and padded the skull with a jumper before dumping it alongside his laptop and his chargers. He was finished packing in ten minutes. He could have been faster—he managed in five while also handling a bag full of weapons when he was on the road.

He hesitated after looking at the time. It was three in the morning. The tube had not yet started running. He could wait another hour or two. John shook his head. No, he couldn't wait any longer.

Mary was waiting at the landing, wrapped in her dressing gown and hair adorably disheveled from sleep.

"You're awake..." He muttered awkwardly.

"Kind of hard not to be with you trampling around like a bull in a china shop in the next room over." She had no right to sound so amused for someone that just climbed out of bed.

John felt the heat from a flush beginning to tinge his cheeks. "Sorry."

"Are you going back then? To Sherlock?"

He nodded.

Mary came closer and brushed a hand lightly over his shoulder. "Good, you were starting to mope, you know? I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did. I would have thought you would have moved back as soon as you two started texting each other like my students."

"Never can get anything past you."

"Just remember, John. You're always welcome in my home. You're my partner, the best partner I've ever had." She looped her arms around his middle and squeezed. He was only able to return the hug with one arm as his other hand was still gripping his bag. Then she drew away, padded back into her room, and closed the door with a gentle thud.

John remained still and allowed the moment to wash over him. But then the urgency from before—the need to see Sherlock—returned again. He retrieved his keys from the bowl by the front door and the keys to the Corsa. The roads were virtually deserted at that time of the night, so he made the trip from Harrow to Central London in just fifteen minutes. Parking took longer—almost ten full minutes—but he found a spot just several blocks away from Baker Street. He ran the last three blocks with his bag slung over one shoulder.

He reached into his pocket for the key to 221B. When he left the flat after Sherlock's explanation all those weeks ago, Mrs. Hudson had been waiting downstairs. She insisted on giving him keys once more, steadfast in her confidence that John would move back.

Even downstairs, he could hear the sound of Sherlock's violin. Sherlock was actually playing for once. Not wanting to disturb his friend, he navigated the stairs to the second floor swiftly but silently. Sherlock had taken to leaving their front door unlocked again (he really should know to do better), because the knob turned without resistance. Sherlock was clad in a dressing gown with his back to the door. John hovered on the landing, not wanting to disturb the music and yet aching to get close enough to watch Sherlock play.

When he finally stepped forward, the floorboard beneath creaked loudly and the music halted abruptly in the middle of a bar. Sherlock turned and they stared at one another across the length of the sitting room.

"John?" Surprise was one of those emotions that tended to smooth out the sharp angles of Sherlock's face—it softened the edges. But Sherlock rarely allowed it to remain visible for long. He took in John's state and the bag now sitting at his feet. "Finally coming home?"

"Yeah." John was unable to stop the smile creeping across his lips.

The grin that Sherlock gave in return—so small, almost shy, and yet so genuine—made John's heart soar.

-x-x-x-

Readjusting to living with Sherlock Holmes again was an extremely trying exercise in saint-grade patience. It was a bit like attempting to build a house of cards. The slightest errant twitch (Sherlock's mercurial moods, the way he callously invaded John's privacy and personal space, or his lengthy and cutting dissertations of John's apparent failing for the day) would send the entire structure tumbling down, leaving John to rebuild the foundation less sturdy each time over.

It was reliving those first six months with Sherlock again (before the Pool, before Moriarty personally stormed into their lives like a particularly destructive hurricane). But they had been virtual strangers then, not yet settled in the strange friendship that neither had expected or gone looking for. It only made their current situation more excruciating, because they knew each other now (or each of them is equally convinced they do).

The worst part of it all was how John struggled constantly with his feelings for Sherlock. For a while he could trick himself into old routines from the before, but then the smallest little thing would knock him off his equilibrium. It could be anything: the accidental brushing of fingers when passing mugs of tea or looking up and seeing sunlight catch in Sherlock's curls. In the before, John would have barely registered these incidents.

But now that he's admitted to himself that he was in love with Sherlock...

If John had taken to staring at his flatmate more or for longer periods of time, Sherlock made no mention of it. John feared that the day he could no longer use Sherlock's sudden return as the excuse for his own odd behavior would soon come. Because when it did, Sherlock might start probing for the real reason.

Then there were the days where Sherlock reminded him of how it might be for the best that John's love remained unrequited and unacknowledged.

-x-x-x-

John returned from a hunter's pub soaked in alcohol and other people's blood. It was not his lucky night. First, he had to go without Mary, who was busy with school things, to pick up the information promised to them about a potential case. Someone(s) had already beaten them to the punch. Before he could leave empty-handed, he ended up helping to break up a nasty brawl between two well-known rivals, which was immediately followed by doctoring some rather ungrateful hunters. His flatmate was nowhere in sight when he came through the door, his absence flooding John with relief for once. He didn't want to explain to Sherlock or need the detective to try and deduce him. He went straight to the bathroom, peeled off his clothes, and took a long relaxing shower. His clothing were a mess, so he filled the sink with water and left them to soak in it. With nothing else to wear, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out into the hallway.

Where Sherlock had apparently been waiting for him. John supposed he should count himself lucky that the man hadn't just barged in (they've had a number of conversations about that in the past).

"Oh good, John, I was hoping you could..." Sherlock trailed off as his eyes were immediately drawn to the black flames and pentagram tattooed on John's right shoulder. In the next three seconds, the same set of eyes raked over John's naked torso, lingering ever so briefly on the spots that sported the scarred tokens of his adventures with Mary. Leave it to Sherlock to do something as perfectly intrusive and creepy like keeping a mental catalog of John's scars in that mind palace of his.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to John's face before resettling once again on the tattoo. "You didn't used to have that."

Sherlock was a such bloody hypocrite, because for all his whining about John constantly stating the obvious, Sherlock often did the same.

"Do you mind?" John snapped, clutching the towel tighter to his hips and feeling more exposed than he has ever felt before.

The stupid git didn't move and instead reached out with one hand toward the tattoo. John quickly wheeled back out of the range of touch until his back was planted against the wall. He wished he knew exactly what he was objecting to: Sherlock touching the anti-possession symbol or just Sherlock touching him at all.

The hand reaching out hung in the air for a moment before being snapped back in an elegant and fluid motion. The look on Sherlock's face had John cringing in anticipation of what was coming.

Sherlock shifted back onto the heels of his feet and launched into sting of deductions. "The edges of the design are jagged, signifying a less than experienced tattoo artist or even an unlicensed one. It makes sense as you are hardly a man of the inclination to spend upwards of a hundred pounds an hour on body art. Then there's the question of why you even got it in the first place. While tattoos are no longer as stigmatized or the sole purview of criminal like they once were, a majority of the people who get them are usually of specific sub- or counter-cultures. Though you were military once, you're hardly one of those meatheads eager to mark themselves up. If you were, you would have had one from long before we met. Of the rest, tattoos are most often done to commemorate an important or life-changing event: the affirmation of a new romantic entanglement, in memory of a loved one, for religious reasons—"

"Or maybe because I wanted to." John cut in. He didn't know for sure whether or not Sherlock had "to prevent demonic possession" as an item on his list of reasons. He didn't want to find out either.

Sherlock replied with the we-both-know-what's-really-going-on look and John had to grit his teeth. He was so overcome with the sudden urge to deck the tall bastard.

"Then there is the matter of the design, a pentagram, an occult image. But you're not inclined toward that spiritual or New Age hogwash—you haven't been to church since before you were shipped out to Afghanistan. So the design is neither of your preference or for your own benefit. Judging by the discoloration, you've have it for about two years. Now what possibly could have happened then to prompt you to do this? The only change in your lifestyle during that time of which I am aware of is your association with Mary Morstan."

He tensed at the mention of Mary. How the hell did Sherlock know about Mary? John had been going out of his way to keep them apart. Mary had been so enraged on John's behalf and he was afraid of what Sherlock may be able to deduce if he met her. Was this Mycroft's doing? Why did Sherlock even care about Mary (definitely cared enough to not just immediately delete her like so many of John's ex-girlfriends)?

His flatmate's tone was laced with utter disdain when he continued, "So it is related to Ms. Morstan somehow. Perhaps one of your ill-fated attempts to win her affection? I suppose she could fancy herself Wiccan, but not enough data at this time to know for sure."

Now was probably not the time to mention that Mary's mother had been a proper witch and that Mary herself had enough spellbooks to supply a coven or five.

John scrubbed the heels of his hand into his face. This interrogation was draining. He was naked and Sherlock was sticking his nose into places where it didn't belong. He was scared that somehow Sherlock might see through him, even if John logically knew there was no way the madman would be able to deduce the existence of ghosts and demons with no prior knowledge. He was starting to get cold. He just wanted to go upstairs and crawl into his warm bed. "Yes, Sherlock, you're absolutely right, it was a really stupid attempt to try and impress Mary. I am an idiot after all."

John's gaze roamed to the wall over Sherlock's shoulder suddenly squared with tension. He could feel Sherlock staring and focusing with all the resources of his admittedly incredible mind. After neither of them moved for some time, John finally gave in and met the other man's gaze.

Sherlock was glaring. "You're lying."

John figured he'd hang himself either way, so he said nothing.

Sherlock took that as reason to crowd into his space, trapping John against the wall. "What are you hiding?" he demanded.

The new proximity sent his pulse skyrocketing and he mentally admonished his traitorous body. John mustered all the anger he could (too easily, his free hand is flexing in itch of another impending fight) and glared right back. "I don't have to tell you everything, Sherlock. You don't have the right to know everything about me."

"Why not?" Sherlock countered, utterly petulant like a child denied his favorite toy. His response shouldn't be surprising to John, but it still was.

"You just don't."

With that, John ducked around Sherlock and trampled up the stairs. He closed his bedroom door with a slam that shook the windows, locked it, and didn't emerge from his room until almost noon the next day. In retaliation, Sherlock didn't return to the flat for another two days until John was sick with worry. They fought for real then—their first proper row since John moved back, complete with shouting and threats of grievous bodily harm and objects thrown.

The entire experience left him feeling raw and used. John was forced to admit that even though he was in love with Sherlock or even if the man himself was willing, he would have to be mad (even madder than he already was hunting after murderers and creatures of the night) to enter into a relationship with Sherlock bloody Holmes.


	3. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They may be putting the pieces of themselves back together, but the world around them is slowly falling apart.

Sherlock loathed—absolutely loathed—to admit it, but he'd made some grave miscalculations. He had been so certain that John's return to Baker Street was a sure sign of his forgiveness. He was so sure that meant they would be able to resume their friendship and their life together from where they left off.

In many ways, that was exactly what happened. The skull returned with John, restored to its former spot on the mantelpiece where it watched over the two of them with bony benevolence. Sherlock declared boredom in response to a complete lack of cases and John was still the one to pick up the groceries. Sherlock hacked and sawed at his violin and John always made an extra cup of tea for him. Sherlock passed his time experimenting on body parts provided by Molly while John resigned himself to specimens filling the fridge. They spent evenings watching crap telly in their respective chairs. And neither of them cleaned or tidied up once they finished unpacking.

But it was all wrong!

Gone was the previous easy affection and effortless intimacy of before. Their current lives within 221B were twisted parodies of what they had before (inverse; through the looking glass darkly [irrelevant/flag for deletion]). This... pantomime was an affront to Sherlock's sensibilities.

There was a gap yawning between them like a bottomless chasm. It took Sherlock a few days to realize, because feelings were never going to be his strong suit. It was an emotional distance imposed by John himself. It became obvious once Sherlock recognized the way John would subtly lean away from him or how there was 30% less direct eye contact during conversations.

He wanted to grab John by the shoulders, shake him, and demand to know what had changed.

But he didn't.

John had become almost inscrutable in their time apart. Oh, he was just as easy to read as before. No, the problem was the data had become nigh impossible to interpret.

Take for example, the increasing number of gun calluses on John's palms. They spoke of frequent handling of firearms over a long period of months. It was difficult to tell from a distance—Sherlock had yet to manufacture a ruse to take John's hands so that he may have better examine said calluses—but the varied pattern and sizes of them suggested all manners of guns that were not just John's illegal service revolver. But why?

And John had never been particularly secretive before. He'd given up trying within the first month of living with Sherlock, deducing quite correctly that there was little he could do to hide things from Sherlock if the detective was determined to find out. John was making that effort now. His friend had two mobiles now. Sherlock noticed this within the first week of John moving back to 221B, because John kept it on his person all the time. John didn't often get calls on his new mobile (a pay-as-you-go T-Mobile Zest purchased roughly 11 months ago). He was more likely to receive text messages or voicemails. John always made sure to leave the flat before answering any calls or checking any messages.

The one time that Sherlock lifted the device to take note of the new number and the contacts inside (no full names, all entries in its address book are given as initials except for the one called "Dispatch"), John had noticed after just ten minutes. He stormed into Sherlock's bedroom, ripped the mobile from his hand, and screamed and ranted about personal boundaries. Sherlock was bored by his diatribe and more than a bit intrigued by his overreaction (after all, it wasn't the first time Sherlock took such liberties). Then John threatened to leave, causing an uncomfortable tightness in Sherlock's chest that squeezed out all the air from his lungs (panic, Sherlock would later realize with dismay).

So he respected the fact that the second mobile was off-limits—for now.

Sherlock usually had other means of learning about John (Mycroft would call it snooping, but Mycroft was a raging hypocrite), like through John's laptop. But John scrubbed his internet history every time, and Sherlock could only deduce so much from the wear and faded lettering of the keyboard. There were moments when he contemplated installing a keylogger or thought about how he could just force the issue (force John to stop being so infuriating). But he didn't do any of those things because even Sherlock Holmes could recognize what thin ice he was skating on.

Sherlock endured two maddening weeks of awkward silences, stilted conversations, four blazing rows, and furtive glances when Sherlock knows John was not looking and when John thinks Sherlock hadn't noticed. He endured it because he could see that John was still mad and scared and woke up in the morning to come lumbering down the stairs to stare at Sherlock with disbelief. He suffered through it because he had already spent 30 months away from John and he was reluctant to spend anymore. There were still no signs that things were returning to the way they were before though, that their friendship was the same as ever (because John will always be Sherlock's best friend).

"Oh, Sherlock, just give it time." Mrs. Hudson cooed once after Sherlock had been ejected from the flat after a row, which started over something so minor that Sherlock had already deleted it but moved onto matters much deeper cutting. "Everything will be fine."

Everything wasn't fine, because Sherlock barely had any cases and he certainly didn't have John.

At the end of his second week after moving back, John went out with his Browning tucked against the small of his back (of course Sherlock took note of the telltale bulge).

"I'm going out. Don't wait up." John paused in the doorway with a hesitant smile that immediately dropped away when Sherlock leveled a scrutinizing gaze at him.

"Where?" he demanded. "To see Mary again?"

"None of your business." John grounded out and fled so suddenly that Sherlock was startled by the uncharacteristic move.

John eventually returned the next afternoon. Sherlock had worked himself into a proper mood, aided by the fact that John had ignored his texts all night. He turned on his returning flatmate, ready to unleash a string of devastating deductions about John's nocturnal activities. He stopped short. John was wearing an entirely different outfit from the day before, but the clothes were still undeniably his. The blond man had also showered and cleaned as best as he could to wipe away evidence of whatever had happened last night.

But John wasn't a blank slate and Sherlock still took in more than enough to piece together a relatively complete picture. John hadn't engaged in sexual intercourse, but he had done something physically straining judging by the tension in his injured shoulder.

He didn't mention any of that. Instead, he could only focus on one fact above all: "You're still keeping clothing at Mary's house."

"Yes." And John retreated swiftly to his bedroom.

Sherlock knew then that he had to end this.

 

-x-x-x-

According to an article in the Guardian, violent crimes in London had risen a sharp twenty-eight percent in just the last two months. Almost half of that was in homicides alone. Bad news for the city, great news for consulting detectives—if they were allowed to work.

Despite his reputation being restored, Sherlock had not been invited back to work with the Met. It didn't stop him from constantly submitting tips to New Scotland Yard based on whatever he managed to deduce from the details in the news. John also suspected Sherlock may be hacking into case files somehow. Instead, Sherlock was forced to sustain on a meager diet of less intriguing cases from more intrepid, private clients—or worse, anything that Mycroft tried to foist on him.

In short, it made Sherlock even more insufferable than usual. His mess and experiments had completely overtaken the flat—the sitting room, the kitchen, the bathroom... The only safe haven from the strange odors, oddly colored mold, and Sherlock's exceptionally black moods was John's bedroom.

John himself coped in a number of ways—long walks, nights out with Mary or Greg, and with work. The recent uptick in crimes also meant more cases for hunters in the Greater London area. It now took John twice as long to accomplish anything, between balancing Sherlock's attention and any unwanted notice from authorities or being captured on CCTVs. He had returned the Corsa to its usual resting place in Mary's garage. Without it, his frequent commutes to Mary's in Harrow ate up even more of his time.

His efforts did little to improve his home life. Sherlock objected to John's constant absence from the flat, citing needing him for cases or experiments. But as John was quick to counter: Sherlock didn't actually have any cases and John certainly hadn't agreed to come along regardless. They argued all the time; Sherlock always wanted to know who he was with or where he was. John didn't think he'd be able to keep up the pretense of his double life much longer.

John did everything he could to keep Sherlock from finding out. He never brought any research materials back to Baker Street; never kept any weapons in the flat other than his Browning, a silver knife, and a flask of holy water; and never took any case-related calls within Sherlock's immediate vicinity. But it wasn't enough. Because Sherlock wouldn't stop digging and prying, leaving no stone unturned and even pickpocketing John's work mobile at one point. John yelled at Sherlock even though experience had taught him little of his rant would stick.

John threatened to leave if Sherlock couldn't leave it be.

Then he unpacked the ashtray Sherlock had nicked from Buckingham Palace from one of his storage boxes and his insides churned and twisted as a rainbow of light danced across the crystalline surface. He realized then he had only two choices: tell Sherlock (because the detective is like a dog with a bone when searching for the truth) or leave him.

Well, losing Sherlock (again) wasn't an option at all. Was it?

 

-x-x-x-

Almost two months after returning to London, Sherlock had yet to meet Mary Morstan. She never came by the flat despite her frequent associations with John. John always went out to meet her at a pub or at her home.

He reviewed what he knew about her thus far: Mary Morstan—no more than five years younger than John—a teacher by trade and currently employed at the Highgate School as a Latin teacher in the senior school—no record of employment between January 2012 to October 2012 after having spent the last few years before then as a private tutor—once engaged to former Crown Prosecutor, William Lamont, before his disgraced suicide in 2010. Stable. Boring. Average. Couldn't possibly be able to provide the kind of heart-pounding lifestyle John was accustomed to.

It quickly became obvious that John was doing his best to keep them from meeting? But why? Even though Sherlock had been less than nice to many of John's previous girlfriends, John had never tried to hide them from him.

So Sherlock took it upon himself to find out more. He followed her in disguise for two days, though they were both school days. She left her house around seven each morning, arrived at her school by seven-thirty, and went home around 4:15 after classes. She didn't go out to meet John or anyone else on either night.

Come Saturday morning, Sherlock found himself trying to track her across half of northern London. He nearly lost her in the crowd at the grocery store (Saturday is commonly regarded as the busiest day for grocers—the average family in the UK spends over 200 pounds on groceries per month, even more now after those crop failures in September—no, too crowded, too much input at once).

Around eleven, she ducked into a gym (he figured her more as the type for yoga). He couldn't follow her in without drawing attention to himself, so he bought a newspaper at the corner newsstand and found a seat in the juice bar across the street facing the gym. It was absurdly easy to track her movements with one eye on his paper. The gym didn't run deep into the building and Sherlock was able to track her journey from the treadmill (a 15 minute warm-up) to two different weight machines (about ten minutes on each) and stretching on the floor mats afterwards. But Mary didn't vanish into the locker rooms in the back. Without changing out of her workout clothing, she came out of the gym and crossed the street to enter the juice bar.

Sherlock hid his face behind his reading material as she got into the queue. He glared surreptitiously at the back of her head as she stood in line. Which was why it was so surprising when she turned suddenly and their eyes met across the shop. He broke the eye contact first, sliding his gaze back to the newsprint before him.

The damage was done. Mary had seen and most likely recognized him.

Up close and finally face to face, Sherlock was able to register a number of facts he hadn't anticipated. She was fitter than she appeared, as much of her day-to-day clothing hid her petite yet lightly muscled form. With all the skin exposed by her exercise outfit, there were a surprising number of faded scars visible. Sherlock cataloged three healed lacerations made by knives (two serrated and one straight-edge) and a jagged cut made by the sharp end of a security fence. Mary Morstan led a far more active lifestyle than Sherlock had been led to believe.

After she got her order, she threw herself into the seat across from him with a smoothie in hand. Her exposed skin was dotted with goosebumps. Sherlock gave up the pretense of reading his paper and dropped it onto the table.

Her stare deepened into a full-on glare. "You've been following me all morning."

"You know who I am then?" Not that Sherlock had really taken any care to disguise himself.

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Her words were clipped and barely polite. She didn't like him—that much was obvious. But Sherlock wasn't very fond of this woman John seemed intent on hiding from him.

"I'm curious as to what sort of woman has monopolized so much of John's time."

"Jealous?" She arched an eyebrow.

~~_Yes._ ~~

Sherlock didn't dignify the inquiry with an answer. He just narrowed his eyes at her. His gaze swept over the length of her body, compiling all the points of data into the appropriate conclusions. "You're not one of John's girlfriends. Neither are the two of you having casual sex, but not because of a lack of attraction on either of your parts. You've each mutually decided not to pursue a romantic relationship with one another. Your own reason is obvious, it's evident that you're still mourning your deceased fiance. Which begs the question of what you're doing together."

"Men and women can be just friends, you wanker."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Irrelevant. Despite John's affability, he has few close friends. Trust issues, his old therapist would say. God knows that's the only thing she managed to get correct. Here you are, a very close friend made during one of the most trying times of his life—"

"And whose fault is that?" Mary snapped. Anger flashed in her blue eyes, and Sherlock was reminded of the similar look on John's face.

He brushed off her outburst. "John isn't like most people, ordinary people, he's far more interesting than that."

"So you're trying to suss out what exactly it is that I provide for John?"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to sneer. She may be more perceptive than his original estimation, but she was far from spectacular. Even if she had realized he had been following her. But if Sherlock had actually made the effort, Mary would have never known otherwise. "I see, you bonded over similar circumstances, the death of a close loved one. Hmm, sentimental, dull." He turned his head slightly to feign boredom, but still watching for her reaction out of the corner of his eyes.

Mary didn't snarl at him, though the arrangement of her features was a precursor to one. She reined her emotions in and the planes of her face smoothed out again. "And you're proving to be every bit the egotistical asshole that I imagined you to be. Now that we've established that our first impressions of each other are utterly spot on, you can tell me what you really want so I can get on with my day."

Down to business then. Sherlock could work with that.

"I need you to stop distracting John. He's wasting valuable time that could be spent on cases."

She stared as if he had just grown a second head. "You have got to be kidding me. First of all, from what I heard from John, your consulting business hasn't really picked up yet. Secondly, John chooses to spend time with me, of his own free will, because I'm his friend. The concept may be a bit foreign to you. Protip, people don't make their friends watch them fake their death just to get a leg up on their arch-nemesis."

He bristled at her words. "Do not speak lightly of circumstances which you have no understanding of," he snapped.

"Oh, I have a pretty clear understanding of what happened. But you didn't have to see John after you pulled your little stunt. I won't say that John was better off without you, because he wasn't. I was with him that first year after your death. You didn't have to live with him. He was broken and didn't even know it."

"So what? You're claiming to have fixed him?" He spat the words with unrestrained venom.

Because Sherlock had been the one to fix John, to cure his limp, and to give him purpose. Sherlock had done it first.

"No, he did that for himself. I just gave him some tools to help ease the way. He helped me in much the same way." By the end of her sentence,  
Mary gained a faraway look in her eyes.

Sherlock didn't like the way she spoke. There was a history there that he didn't know (yet)—events and conversations that only John and Mary shared recollections of. They were not things he could easily deduce. Sherlock was not a part of that shared history, nor would he ever be able to worm his way in through retrospection.

Mary continued, her grip tightening around the smoothie she had yet to sip from. "John does need you. Maybe he actually doesn't, but he wants to stay by your side. At the same time, I don't think you're necessarily good for him," she paused and glanced at him from under her eyelashes. "And I don't think you deserve him either."

Sherlock Holmes had never thought of himself as a good man. He was many things: brilliant, effective, rude, self-serving to just name a few (stubborn, lazy, ignorant; John's voice added in his head), but never good. Well, rarely good. And John Watson was assuredly a good man, a better friend than Sherlock deserved. He knew all that, but to hear the same from Mary's mouth grated his nerves.

What did she know of his relationship with John? Who was she to judge him?

She surprised him for a second time that day when she quietly muttered (he'd almost missed it), "But I may not have been good for John either." Her free hand unconsciously clenched, much like the well-practiced motion of gripping a rifle. "If you hurt him again, I will make you regret it."

"That would be terribly ambitious of you." In spite of himself, the corner of his lips quirked upward in a crooked smirk.

She rose from the chair, signaling the end of their meeting. "Look, I don't wish for things between you and John to go sour. He wants this to work and I want it too for his sake. But I do think it telling that you chose to stalk me rather than just talk to John."

It was only when she turned her back to him and walked away that Sherlock saw the tattoo between her shoulder blades. It was the same exact fire and pentagram design as John's.

 

-x-x-x-

John tugged the mug of coffee closer, breathing in the scent and warming his chilled fingers against the heated ceramic. Mary sat across from him with a cup of hot chocolate. The cafe was overflowing with holiday shoppers and bag loads of wrapped gifts. John smiled and relished the sounds of life around him. It felt good to get out of the flat and away from Sherlock's strops.

But the relief was short-lived. He sighed. He could leave Baker Street for a while, but it was difficult to escape Sherlock Holmes completely.

"I'm going to stop hunting," and a second later, he added, "For now."

Mary didn't even bat an eye at his declaration. She sipped her cocoa before speaking, "It's your flatmate, isn't it? You're afraid he might catch on."

"Oh, I can already see his mind working overtime trying to figure it all out. This is Sherlock we're talking about. It's just a matter of when. And it's going to be hard to slip under Mycroft's radar."

John had thought long and hard about it. But he had agreed to move back in with Sherlock. He had agreed to work with the man on cases again. It was something that he struggled with for a long time. It felt wrong to just give up hunting—to pre-emptively give up on the people who may need his help in the future.

John needed to stay by Sherlock's side though.

"You're allowed to be selfish, John." She had turned her head to watch the pedestrians passing the store window.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the momentary heartache to pass. "Everything's changed and I don't know how to explain this to him, who you and I are, what I've become. I just need some time to figure out if Sherlock and I still work together."

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that she had turned back to stare at him with disbelief.

Her voice was full of wonder when she found her voice, "You want to tell him. You actually want to tell him. Have you gone mad?"

"I'll have to explain it at some point, Mary. I just need some time first."

Neither of them chose to comment on the fact that voluntarily revealing one's hunter status outside of the community was upheld as a sort of unspoken taboo. There were hunters that spent their lives keeping just that from friends, family, and loved ones. And neither of them pointed out that John was treating telling Sherlock as a given—as inevitable.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his microscope. John had entered the flat through the kitchen door, still dressed against the winter chill.

John wanted to talk.

After a moment of leaning against the doorjamb, John pushed off and approached the lab table. "We should talk."

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but the bacterial sample under his lens no longer commanded his full attention. A quick glance at John confirmed Sherlock's suspicions: crumbs still caught in the corner of his lips, strands of long blond hair caught on John's sleeve from the embrace shared before they parted, his body weight leaned toward one side after having carried something heavy, and a sense of ease that always overtook him after seeing her... Conclusion: John had met Mary Morstan at a cafe near Oxford Street for tea and then helped her with some of her holiday shopping afterwards.

"Go on, I'm listening." Sherlock pulled back from his lab equipment.

John licked his lips—nervous then. "This isn't working."

Panic—oh, Sherlock loathed how familiar it had become—set in. Despite himself, his mind was racing ahead through dozens of possible scenarios without any of the necessary data to eliminate the clearly erroneous ones. Would John move out again? Would John go to Mary? Would he ask Sherlock to leave (Sherlock won't leave, he won't, he was here first)?

John forged on, oblivious to the thoughts now running through Sherlock's head. "If we're going to flatmates again, friends again, we need to lay down some ground rules."

Sherlock's discomfort was quickly displaced by annoyance. Really, rules? How tedious.

"I mean it, Sherlock."

Sherlock wiped the disgruntled expression from his face in favor of the blank mask. John crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw in a grim line. It was a soldier's stance. John was not going to compromise on this front.

"Let's hear your insipid rules then," he sneered.

"First, you need to stop snooping. Don't think I haven't noticed you going through my room and laptop when I'm not around. There's nothing for you to find that you don't already know, so stop it."

"Fine!" Sherlock hadn't found anything of interest besides the second mobile that John guarded so jealously. He wasn't likely to discover anything new at this point.

"You also need to stop prying."

"How is that any different from snooping?"

"You don't get to know everything about me just because you think you have some God given right. The things I share with you, I do so in confidence. But I also have reasons for whatever I want to keep to myself. If it's important, I'll tell you."

Sherlock brought tented hands to his chin and tilted forward. John didn't flinch under his scrutiny. So John wasn't lying, he would tell Sherlock. "When?"

"When I'm good and ready, but I will tell you eventually."

It wasn't an ultimatum (not exactly, maybe an implied one), just a delineation of boundaries. They'd never needed that before. Not formally and set out loud like this. They used to be able to instinctively navigate around all those landmine subjects that neither wanted to share with the other: the gritty details of Sherlock's former drug habits or of John's military service for example. But John and Sherlock weren't the same people they were before the Fall (between John's blog and Moriarty, Sherlock had begun referring to the events at Bart's as thus). It was new territory to be mapped and negotiated again.

"I agree to your," Sherlock paused to consider his best word choice. "Terms." He unfolded his hands and resettled back on the microscope dials.

"Uh, great, do you have anything to add?"

Sherlock fiddled with the focus before answering, "All I require is your friendship and your commitment to the Work. That's more than enough, John."

John unfurled his arms and let them fall to his side with a heartfelt quirk in the corner of his lips. "Your friendship is also really important to me. That's why I want us to work this out."

The words—John's words—suffused Sherlock's body with a warm glow. Affection... He drank it in and tried to hold the feeling for as long as possible.

"Oh, and please don't follow Mary around." John added like it was an afterthought. "If you want to get to know her better, I can arrange a meeting, invite her over to the flat sometime."

Sherlock's meeting with Mary Morstan had been days ago. He had been fairly sure John had not known or been told. Otherwise, he would have expected John to confront him on his behavior right away. Not like this, days later and barely batting an eye. Sherlock lowered his gaze to his work on the table. "No, that won't be necessary."

"Right," John nodded, but mostly for his own benefit. "Good." He shed his jacket and walked resolutely into the living room, completely self-assured in each step. He now deemed the conversation over with.

And Sherlock was left in the kitchen, feeling off-balanced and just a bit stunned.

But their situation did improve over the next week. The second mobile with its mysterious contacts vanished overnight. Sherlock doubted John had gotten rid of it entirely, but he wasn't going to push his luck by seeking it out. John spent less time out with Mary and most nights were spent at home in companionable silence with Sherlock. John stopped projecting all those tells of lying and hiding that had set Sherlock's teeth on edge before. In return, Sherlock found himself less often irritated by his flatmate's absence/presence or obtuseness.

They finally managed to break the negative-feedback loop of the recent weeks and were settling back into old habits.

Without having to worry about John anymore (John leaving, John pulling away, no he wouldn't), Sherlock's mind turned on itself—tearing into itself. The interminable boredom returned with a vengeance. So when the opportunity to take a private case finally presented itself, he jumped on it. The client barely got the chance to explain the situation with multiple wills, illegitimate children, and a missing heirloom supposedly dating back to the French Revolution before Sherlock was crowding her out the door. John hung back as Sherlock pulled on his coat, scarf, and gloves.

He noted how John was angling his body toward him. His body language was virtually screaming and broadcasting his desire to go with Sherlock. "Well, aren't you coming? We haven't got all day."

John answered with the largest grin as he scrambled for his outerwear, and Sherlock felt like the organ in his chest was going to burst with light.

It wasn't an especially interesting case, a three at best, and Sherlock had it sussed out before the end of the day. No one shot at them and John didn't need to make use of his gun either. But John was by his side for the entire duration—never trailing more than a step behind—and that was all that really mattered.

-x-x-x-

It was a Saturday when John learned that the world might soon end.

Actually, it was knowledge he had been skirting around the edges of for months. The rumors—talk of two brothers in America that might have jump-started it and the things that demons caught in traps bragged about—had been circling for just as long. He would have to be blind not to notice the neon-bright signs of late.

If he was honest with himself (and he often was), he had been eying the news of natural disasters occurring all over the globe with some apprehension. But these sort of things rarely made logical sense. After all, no one could predict an earthquake until it started.

The Apocalypse, the end of the world, the end of days, whatever you wanted to call it. Except there was nothing certain about it. No one knew when it was coming—tomorrow, next month, next year? No one knew exactly what it would entail for humanity (the Book of Revelations is a sketchy source at best). Hell, there were plenty of hunters that didn't even buy the story. For one thing, would all the signs of the world ending really be so neatly localized to middle America? Yes, demons were up to something, but when are they not up to something? And the gossip about angels walking the earth? No one in England has seen one yet.

When or if something actually happened, he would be prepared to do what was needed. But until then, John didn't see the use in worrying about what might be and he was content to just be with Sherlock in the meanwhile. He had enough to worry about with keeping Sherlock from heading to an early grave (again).

At least until that Saturday afternoon someone decided to shoot up Hyde Park at the height of the holiday season.

John came out of the job interview relatively confident. When he checked his mobile, there were half a dozen text messages waiting. All of them were from Sherlock and most were his attempts to convince John that a day job would just cut into their time when cases started coming with regularity again. The last one, sent almost 50 minutes ago.

FROM: Sherlock Holmes  
 _Potential case. Meet me at the Christmas market in Hyde Park after your interview._   _SH_

There was a television over the receptionist's desk and John glanced up as he passed. The telly was showing the BBC News channel where the newscasters were discussing something rather serious judging by the grim expressions on their faces. John had seen the same look on the harsh countenance of his commanding officers in Afghanistan when something went particularly wrong. It was probably the only reason he stopped long enough to read the current headline scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

**Shooting spree in Hyde Park 30 minutes ago**

His mind was reeling when he caught himself against the receptionist's desk. The woman seated behind it started at the hollow thud and asked, "Are you okay, sir?"

"Could you please turn the telly up?" The words were raspy when they left his mouth.

She gave him an odd look but turned up the volume as requested.

"The Metropolitan Police Force have locked down the affected area of Hyde Park and are preparing to release a full statement soon. But several eyewitness accounts report that approximately 30 minutes ago, a white male in his early 30s opened fire into the crowd at this year's Winter Wonderland installment. The number of casualties are unknown at this time and the injured are being taken to nearby Saint Mary's hospital."

He scrambled to dig his mobile out of his pocket again, glad to see his hands were still steady. No new messages from Sherlock. He hit one on his speed dial.

_Pick up, Sherlock. Come on, please pick up._

The call rang out and went to voicemail. John tried again but to no avail. He turned toward the clinic's door and paused long enough to send a text.

TO: Sherlock Holmes  
 _WHERE ARE YOU?_

John's pulse was fluttering, racing in his ears. He tapped his fingers against the receptionist's desk, who had resumed watching him nervously. He tried to reach Sherlock for the third time with no success.

He was contemplating his next move when he received a text. It wasn't from Sherlock.

FROM: Greg Lestrade  
 _Come to Hyde Park now._

John tore out of the surgery. He was only five blocks away and if he remembered correctly, the Christmas market was in the southeastern part of the park. He briefly thought about taking a cab over, but traffic in the streets was at a virtual standstill. They must be restricting the vehicular traffic around the park until it was backed up all the way onto Piccadilly. His lungs were burning, struggling to pull in air, when he finally reached Hyde Corner.

The police presence was everywhere, flooding the street. Cars were being redirected from Piccadilly up Park Lane in one direction. John could see the roadblock for the other direction in the distance. There were police barriers set up at this particular park entrance, barring the wandering public and the press swarming on the pavement. Beyond a second set of barricades, an area cordoned off by crime scene tape, uniformed constables and detectives were taking statements from visibly shaken witnesses. From this distance, it was difficult to make out anything distinguishable from the crowd of bodies pressed together. It should be easy to spot Sherlock in a crowd, with his ridiculous height and dramatic coat.

He tried calling Sherlock again. No answer.

John pushed through the crowd gathered around the first barricade. He needed to get a better look at the crowd inside. He fought and shoved his way to the front without an apology to anyone. These people shouldn't be here to gawk at a tragedy in the first place.

"Sir, you need to step back," a uniformed constable barked when John leaned up against the barricade. "Sir!"

He ignored her and scanned the mass of police, EMT workers, and witnesses again. Still no bloody sign of Sherlock.

"Sir—" The constable moved forward with purpose.

John didn't let the policewoman finish. "I'm here to see Detective Sergeant Lestrade. He asked me to come."

The frown on her face just deepened. The constable was prepared to argue with him and John didn't have the time for this. He needed to find Sherlock now. He was so focused on the police barring his way, he didn't notice Sally Donovan sidling up to them until after she spoke.

"It's okay, constable. I'll take him in." Donovan said after flashing her warrant card.

Cursing his shorter stature under his breath, John climbed not so gracefully over the wooden barricade. The constable stepped aside with a heavy scrowl and resumed her watch of the crowd.

"Doctor Watson," Donovan gave as a way of greeting.

After a moment's hesitation, he replied, "Sergeant Donovan."

She turned on her heels after gesturing for him to follow. John paused as he struggled to swallow the sour emotions clogging his throat. This was the first time he'd seen her since Sherlock's return. This was the first time speaking with one another since she took his statement after Sherlock had jumped.

Had the situation been anything but what it currently was, John might have spared a few moments to tell her off. But that would be wasting valuable time now.

She led him straight past the witnesses and deeper into the park, past a second line of crime scene tape. Forensic technicians and plain clothes detectives were combing the grounds here. The surrounding stalls were plainly abandoned in a hurry with merchandise left out haphazardly. John spotted Lestrade first, whose arm was being treated by an EMT worker. Lestrade's expression was equal parts exasperation and worry, wincing a bit when something was applied to the livid red cut on his arm.

He followed the line of Lestrade's sight to the person he was ranting at. Some part of John already knew who it would be based on Lestrade's behavior. Despite that, he so intensely relieved to see Sherlock standing a few feet away and nursing a lit cigarette. The relief was immediate, uncoiling all the tension sitting heavily in John's gut that his body gave a brief shudder.

Then he was a bit angry.

John marched straight past Donovan without a word and over to where Sherlock stood. "Sherlock Holmes, answer your damn phone!"

"John, you're here! Now please talk some sense into him!" Lestrade pointed an accusatory finger in Sherlock's direction.

For a split second, his flatmate looked a bit panicked, but he quickly dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with his loafer. "Ah John, done with your interview already? Did you ask this one out on a date as well?"

John wanted to kiss the barmy bastard. The urge was overshadowed by the non-negligible desire to hit him. Neither was an option, because John is English and you didn't do either in public (and certainly not in full view of half the Metropolitan police force). He settled for manhandling Sherlock into sitting down next to Lestrade on the bench. "Not a word," John hissed as he checked Sherlock over for injuries.

"John, I'm completely unharmed." Sherlock tried to bat his hands away.

John glared and for once, Sherlock quieted. He spent the next minute reassuring himself that Sherlock was indeed unharmed and in one piece.

"What happened?" he asked after finally pulling away.

"You already know the basics: a mass murderer opened fire in the park. Lestrade was the one to neutralize the shooter. He has better aim than expected, especially given how badly he bollocked it up back in Dartmoor with the hound—"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped irritably.

"I imagine you'll be hailed a hero for putting such a swift end to the spree. They'll re-promote you if the Met knows what's good for them." Sherlock was studying something behind John as he spoke.

John turned in time to see some technicians zip up a black body bag. There was blood spattered all over the ground and when he looked closely at some of the nearby booths, he could see the same spray of red. God, this was right where the shooting spree had taken place.

"And what are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"You read my text, you know why. It's the only reason why you were so worried and you ran here all the way from the surgery. You needn't worry. I was safe."

Lestrade then mumbled, "You would have been a whole lot safer if you'd stayed put like I told you to."

John rubbed a hand down his face. "Dear Lord, Sherlock, please tell me you didn't run toward the sound of gunfire. You could have been hurt, or worse—" He couldn't bare to finish voicing the thought.

The panic glint returned to Sherlock's eyes. He looked back and forth between John and Lestrade, before settling on the detective sergeant. "You weren't supposed to tell him that!" He looked ready to pout.

"You were supposed to stay hidden!" Lestrade countered with equal venom."It was stupidly reckless. Even if I had the authority to let you onto crime scenes, I certainly wouldn't, not if you're going to be blindly idiotic and get yourself killed for real."

"I was never in any danger."

"That lunatic killed six people, and there's no telling how many of the ones that went to the hospital are going to make it. And you're not even supposed to be here, it's a crime scene. Why hasn't anyone run you off yet?"

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and straightened. "I'd like to see them try."

The tense battle of will was interrupted by the approach of DI Dimmock carrying some sort out camcorder. "Someone caught the shooter on video before he started. I thought you might want to see it."

Sherlock snatched the device out of Dimmock's grip before it could be handed over to Lestrade. The paramedic finally moved away and Lestrade gave a sigh before leaning over to watch. John rounded around the bench to see over their shoulders.

When the video played, it started out focused on a little girl whose mother was talking to her from behind the camera. The little girl smiled widely, showcasing the gap in her teeth. Shouting registered on the audio track somewhere to the right of the mother-daughter pair, and the mother couldn't resist turning with the camera in the direction of the noise. It took a few seconds for the camera to focus on the source: a white male in his early 30s as described in the news report. There were no guns in sight yet, just a frantic flailing of limbs.

John sucked in a loud and heavy gasp. He knew that man—a psychic John had met through Mary while on the job last year.

The man continued to raise his voice louder, now shouting at the top of the lungs. All around him Christmas shoppers and families were giving him a wide berth and wary stares.

The words were spoken in an accent you would not expect in Central London, though not unheard of. It was more American than British, and John knew it was Midwestern American. "The end is here. The Archangel Michael has claimed his sword, he has taken a vessel! Now both Lucifer and Michael walk among us. Once Lucifer claims his true vessel, the Battle of Armageddon will begin. The world will shake and crumble in their wake—"

"Shut up, you nutter! You're scaring the children!" Someone unseen barked.

"They should be afraid! Our days are numbered. This is humanity's last era. This is the end!"

A security guard shuffled into view and grabbed the man's bicep. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

John noticed the motion and realized what it meant far sooner than the security guard. The ranting man shoved the guard back and reached a hand into his jacket. The firearm was a small caliber pistol stored in a shoulder holster. There was a resounding bang and the security guard dropped like a stone. Panicked screams erupted all around after the first shot. More gunfire followed (a second handgun based on how close the shots were), but the camera has already turned away from the shooter and toward the little girl being jostled into view. The rest of the video showed only the racing pavement as the mother ran with her crying child in her arms, until the camera was dropped and abandoned. The last tilted images were of the shoes and concrete to the unrelenting soundtrack of screaming bullets until someone kicked the camera on the ground, and everything went black.

"Ugh, religious delusions," Sherlock mumbled in disgruntlement and dropped the camera in Lestrade's lap.

"Careful, that's evidence!" The older man scowled.

As the two men on the bench started bickering, John drew away from them. Sherlock didn't even notice him leaving. John pulled his mobile again and hit speed dial two. He needed to let Mary know what was happening.

-x-x-x-

It was another two and a half hours before Sherlock made it back to the flat. He hadn't expected John to abandon him at the park, especially considering how distressed he looked when he first arrived. But Lestrade proved to be exceptionally disagreeable today and Sherlock had been carted down to the Yard to give his statement. He suspected it was Lestrade's misguided attempt to teach him a lesson.

Still, it stung that John had run off without him. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that his flatmate had gotten the wrong idea.

He took the seventeen steps up to the flat two at a time. The front door had been left ajar, offering him the glimpse of a scene he didn't entirely approve of.

Mary Morstan was sitting next to John on the sofa; the two of them looking up in unison when Sherlock thundered in. There was hardly any space between them. From their pinched expressions and the dried tear tracks on Mary's face, whatever they had been talking about before he came in was rather serious to them.

"Ms. Morstan," Sherlock greeted with a smile that he ensured was both sharp and jagged. Sociopath smile #3: obvious (now was not the time for subtlety) and almost guaranteed to disconcert the lessers.

(John hated it, of course. But anything to get Mary out of the flat all the sooner.)

Her face tightened, eyebrows scrunching in a very unattractive manner in Sherlock's opinion. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. We were just on our way out. I'll bring the car around and we can go see Emily."

With her exit, she took with her the sickening scent of her flower perfume. Sherlock could finally breathe again. Instead of heading toward his armchair, he placed himself into the space that Mary formerly occupied. John didn't back away, but their knees bumped when he shifted.

"Did you find out anything at the Yard?" John asked.

"About the shooter? Why would I bother? Mass murderers are exceedingly tedious, there's no mystery to them. I'm sure once the Met get around to digging into his background they'll find some recent stress that triggered him, paired with a history of mental illness, judging by religiously-themed delusions."

John went still during Sherlock's speech, stiff and unyielding. It was the body stance of a soldier.

The revelation came quickly to Sherlock. "You knew him, the shooter."

John refused to look in his direction, his words stern but clipped. "His name was Jacob Barnes. He was from Dearborn, Michigan. He married a lovely Londoner named Emily, and they have two children together. He was a person, Sherlock. He has family. His death is as much a tragedy as everyone else's today."

"He murdered at least eight people in cold blood." Sympathy remained firmly outside of Sherlock's reach. He couldn't see the point.

John buckled in on himself (all light and hope sinking into the darkness like a collapsing star). He appeared so worn out and even scared that Sherlock had an irrational urge to tuck John into his arms. It was out of character for him. It was unprecedented.

John continued, "He's—was a good bloke. Today shouldn't have happened." John dragged himself to his feet and tugged on his jacket. "I'll be back later."

Then, John was gone and Sherlock turned to the coffee table in search of the day's newspaper. That was when he spotted the Bible left open on its surface. It wasn't the copy that usually remained untouched on their bookshelf. It was newer, recently purchased and barely thumbed through. He picked it up to move it, but stopped when he noticed a passage underlined with pencil.

 

_Now war arose in heaven, Michael and his angels fighting against the dragon. And the dragon and his angels fought back, but he was defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world— he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.  
_ _\- Revelations 12:7-9_

-x-x-x-

Emily Barnes had looked so lost and shell-shocked when John and Mary went to her house that Saturday evening. The widow sat with her arms wrapped tightly around her youngest, a 6-year-old girl. John wasn't sure Emily even registered the bare minimum of what Mary was saying. They had come to pay their condolences and determine the origins of Jacob's last words before the shooting broke out.

"He had a vision on Wednesday night, first one in almost three months," Emily's grip on her child almost looked like it might cut off circulation. Mary helped ease the hand a bit after John gestured furtively to it. "He became quiet and withdrawn after that, he wouldn't tell me what he saw. He'd lock himself in his consultation rooms for hours and canceled all his appointments over the next two days. I didn't think too much about it. Jacob can get like that after a particularly nasty premonition. But I heard him scream on Friday night around midnight and I found him unconscious on the floor. Again, I'd seen this happen before. I got him into bed to rest, but he was gone by the time I woke up the next morning. He wasn't anywhere in the house, but I had the children to look after, and then the police came to see me that afternoon and..." She trailed off into a hitched sob.

In the end, Mary offered to stay the night with Emily and her children, and John went back to Baker Street alone later that evening.

Sherlock, lost in his thoughts, didn't acknowledge him when he arrived home. John was too tired to engage him in conversation anyway. So he made a cup of tea and retired to his bedroom with it and his laptop in hand. John fell into a fitful sleep while mulling over Jacob Barnes' last prediction and a far too in-depth study of the Book of Revelations.

It was from this not-so-restful slumber that John awoke screaming hours later. Sweat poured down his face and back, drenching the t-shirt he had worn to bed. His head was pounding and his breath came in short gasps like he'd just run a marathon. The nightmare had been vivid and in the darkness of the bedroom, the most lasting and visceral images refused to leave John alone.

It started with Afghanistan as they often did. But the dead body that John found in the desert sand was not that of Private Edwards or anyone else from his old squad. It had been Sherlock, who opened his eyes full of blackness and smiled frightfully around a mouth full of razors. The nightmare didn't end there, because there was falling and more bullets and hellfire.

John kicked off the duvet and scrambled out of his room. The living room was obscured in darkness, but John could still make out the formless shape of Sherlock stretched across the settee's length. He crossed the room, carefully dodging around his armchair and the coffee table. There was a moment's hesitation before he settled on the floor with his back against the sofa. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's body across the small space separating them. John closed his eyes and allowed himself to be calmed by the sound of his flatmate's shallow breathing.

Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was safe. Sherlock was fine.

John's mantra was interrupted by fingers tentatively running through his hair. He startled at the feel. "Sherlock? You awake?"

"Hmm? Nightmares then." Sherlock had turned onto his side until his face was directed at the back of John's head. John could feel the rumble of Sherlock's voice against the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?"

"I was led to believe this was comforting." A huff of air brushed through his hair. The movements stiffened until the fingers were gripping John's follicles, pulling.

It could be difficult to discern Sherlock's motives. Sherlock was not above manipulating people, and he wasn't above lying to get his way. John had his reasons to be hunching over in the dark, fighting off the last visages of an undesired nightmare. But Sherlock had moved closer, eliminating the scant space between their bodies and added the connection of touch. The flat had no right to feel so hot in the middle of December. They had no right to be this intimate—like lovers wrapped in night to bar out the rest of the world.

But John had just learned that the world might actually be ending soon. Would Sherlock have him—let him—if this was the last night on earth? John could crane his neck to the left until his lips found Sherlock's arm or face. It would be easy enough. He could blame it on the oncoming Apocalypse.

But he won't, because he didn't want to spend his final days being rejected by Sherlock.

"Yeah, but you're kinda shite at this. No need to force yourself." John relaxed and let his head fall back against the cushion (at least he could have this proximity, not quite platonic and not quite romantic). "It's just been a long day."

Sherlock withdrew his hand with one last lingering touch across John's clothed shoulder. "You yourself have only met with Barnes once or twice, casually acquainted at best. That much is obvious from the fact that you are perturbed, but not completely distressed by his passing. Ms. Morstan is much more familiar with the entire family, she had been crying before I came back to the flat."

"You're amazing, you know that?"

"Obviously. You and Ms... Mary went to see Barnes' widow together. You were shaken by what she told you. Barnes' behavior was out of character and you don't understand why. Or rather, you do understand but it still doesn't make sense to you. What did Barnes' wife tell you?"

"I thought you weren't interested. You said mass murderers were 'exceedingly tedious'."

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, which was unusual enough in and of itself. "No, I'm not interested in him. But you're affected by it, enough to trigger nightmares for the first time since returning to Baker Street. So I am concerned for you."

John pondered over his flatmate's admission, which made his heart clench (of course Sherlock was capable of caring, he just tried so hard not to). He was going to sound insane if he told the truth (his mother always said he had more courage than good sense). "So what if I told you that Jacob had a psychic vision Wednesday night? What if I told you the world was coming to an end?"

"John!" Sherlock groaned. "If you don't want to tell me, you don't need to make up ridiculous lies. You can't have possibly bought into all that drivel."

He almost laughed out loud then. He'd never been more glad for the cover of darkness to hide his expression. Sherlock was a man of science and logic, who was never going to take talk about the supernatural (ghosts, demons, psychics, Heaven, Hell, gods, monsters, too innumerable to name in full) at face value. Why did he think he'd ever be able to tell Sherlock the truth about John's changed world—the one he and Mary shared?

"You're right, you're right." He didn't understand why, but his heart was sinking and sinking far past his stomach and all the way down to his feet.

The leather creaked softly as Sherlock turned over again. "Go back to bed, John."

John wondered briefly if he was given the chance to turn back time and not learn what he had about the world hidden from most people's view, would he? Would he be happier without the knowledge of the Apocalypse hanging over his head? So he could spend the rest of what may remain with Sherlock in ignorance and in bliss? Then he thought of Mary, the other hunters he had met, and the people he managed to help.

"Good night, Sherlock."

No, he wouldn't change anything about the last two and a half years. Even if Sherlock did not (could not) understand, John would protect him from those unseen forces all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter coincides briefly with Supernatural 5x18 "Point of No Return," where Michael takes Adam as his vessel.


	4. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with the Holmes: well, this should be interesting. Or disastrous. But at least, no one's going to be bored.

Three days before Christmas, they returned to the flat together—drunk on London's air and the high of a chase. It was brilliant moments like this that made all the not-so-brilliant ones worth it. Sherlock stopped short after crossing the threshold and John collided with his warm back. For one hazy moment, he wanted to wrap his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and bury himself in the heat. But something was wrong, Sherlock suddenly radiating hostility where there had only been exhilaration before.

John peered around the contours of his flatmate and spotted the problem, the regrettably familiar form of Mycroft Holmes seated in John's armchair. He sighed and made his way into the kitchen, leaving the brothers to duke it out over the umpteenth round of their cold war. As John sorted out mugs of tea and flipped through their collection of takeout menus, there was only silence in the sitting room. That could only mean the Holmes brothers were holding strange silent conversations consisting of the most minute body expressions or they were waiting for John.

As soon as John crossed back into the sitting room, Sherlock declared aloud, "I can't attend Christmas dinner. I have a case."

Sherlock was flopped across the couch, still wrapped in his greatcoat and scarf. It left John in the awkward position of sitting in Sherlock's armchair directly facing Mycroft. He wrapped his fingers tighter around his mug and resigned himself to the no man's land between the two brothers.

As always, Mycroft's disapproval was equal parts measured and sharpened. "Sherlock, do try harder. I am well aware that you just wrapped up your most recent case, a charity scam, was it? And Mummy insists, you have not seen her once since your return."

John's eyebrows shot upwards. He rarely heard any mention of Mummy Holmes except as a verbal bludgeon one brother would wield against the other and had assumed that she had already passed away. This was the first indication that the woman was still alive and that Sherlock had been steadfastly ignoring her. "Really, Sherlock! She's your mum."

Sherlock tossed a betrayed glare in his direction before going back to ignoring his brother. "There's no need. No doubt Mycroft has already provided her with a dossier of everything that happened. I'm not going."

Mycroft turned his full attention on John instead, who winced. It was Mycroft's pretend-at-normal-small-talk tactic. "And what are your plans for the holidays, John? Will you be going to see your sister?"

"God no," John shuddered. Harry was busy with her new girlfriend on the verge of a serious relationship. They were going on holiday together to Paris. John wondered how long his sister was going to be able to keep her drinking problems from this one. "We were just going to hang around the flat and eat takeout. But if Sherlock's going home," he ignored the rude noise his flatmate made. "I guess I'm on my own."

It wasn't a big deal to John. He had spent months on the road practically alone.

"Perhaps you could stay with Ms. Morstan? The holidays are a dreadful time to be alone." Mycroft's smile was razor-sharp, much like a shark's.

Sherlock's attention was darting wildly between John and Mycroft. John did his best to ignore the fit and convey his message to Mycroft in a steely gaze:  _Please_   _don't use me as a piece in your power-plays with your brother_. In return, the grin on Mycroft's face morphed into an indulgent one. John cursed the day he became fluent in the silent communication of Holmes.

He snuck a glance in Sherlock's direction, who was now wearing a thoughtful expression. John sipped his tea and tried to keep his apprehension at bay. He didn't like that look, that look was always a prelude to an idea that Sherlock thought was terribly clever and John always suffered for it.

Sherlock straightened before he declared, "Only if John goes."

John wanted to turn around and slam his head into the mantelpiece. "No, Sherlock. Do not bring me into the middle of your family feud."

"Sherlock, don't be obstinate." Mycroft scowled, but John could tell it was perfunctory at best.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, fanning his unbuttoned coat like a cape. "Either John goes or I don't."

"It wouldn't be proper, Sherlock. You can't just drag me to your family gatherings like crime scenes." John shifted nervously in his seat. John Watson was no coward, but there was undeniably a part of him that wanted to flee the conversation.

It was Mycroft that leapt at the chance to assure him otherwise. "Nonsense, John. You are welcome to join us, as you yourself already said you don't have any plans. Mummy would be pleased to finally meet you. I know we ask a lot of you, but if you would be so kind as to indulge my brother this once. Mummy does miss him so much."

Both brothers were watching him, Sherlock with a bit of glee and Mycroft all placid. Bastards, the both of them.

Yes, he definitely hated both of the Holmes brothers for putting him into this tight spot. It was all on his head now. If John refused, Sherlock would deem himself absolved and John would be responsible for Mummy Holmes not seeing her baby boy. And Mycroft would definitely hold it against John.

But that was what Sherlock was counting on. He glanced at his flatmate out of the corner of his eyes, who radiated smugness now. Sherlock once said that one of John's more endearing (well, not using that exact word) was his ability to continually surprise the detective. John was also not above being petty (especially with a man like Sherlock who never apologized for anything, much less swanning off for years). Even if it did condemn him to spending what would probably be a very strange holiday with the Holmes family.

He had to admit he was curious about the rest of Sherlock's family (were they all as insufferable as Mycroft?), because Sherlock never talked about them. As far as John could tell, he acted as if he didn't have any family until those inopportune times when Mycroft inevitably popped up. John wanted to know more.

At least he wouldn't be bored.

So he turned to address Mycroft (the older Holmes, the smarter one, whose eyes were shining with victory already). "Sounds lovely actually. It'll be nice to get some confirmation that Sherlock didn't just spring fully formed as he is. Are there any specific dress requirements?" He carefully eyed Mycroft's expensive three-piece suit.

"John!" Sherlock squawked indignantly, shooting up in his seat like a taut bowstring. "You can't!"

"You'll manage fine, John. I'll have a car sent over to pick you both up tomorrow around noon. Mummy will be expecting you for Christmas Eve then. I shall see you both then. Good evening." Mycroft rose from his seat and glided out the door in seconds. There was a bit of a swagger to his steps. There always was when he managed to beat Sherlock in any given battle of the never-ending World War Holmes.

Sherlock was on his feet, tearing off his coat and working himself into a strop. He glared at John the entire time, as if he had just announced that all crime in London was and will forever be eradicated.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. His victory had been so short-lived and barely savored.

The taller man stormed off in the direction of his bedroom.

"It's not the end of the world, you know?" John called after him.

In reply, Sherlock slammed his door shut with a bang.

-x-x-x-

John gaped openly at the estate that their car pulled up to. He had always suspected Sherlock and Mycroft probably came from money. That much was obvious with the public school accent, the ludicrously well-tailored suits, their Cambridge and Oxford educations, and Sherlock's complete inability to grasp the basic tenets of good finance. But nowhere in John's imagination had he considered a country manor more befitting a Jane Austen novel than real life. It spoke of not just money, but old money with titles and land holdings.

"This is where you grew up?" John breathed with amazement, trying very hard to envision a small Sherlock wreaking havoc across Surrey.

He hadn't actually expected Sherlock to answer. When Mycroft sent the car that morning, Sherlock had descended into an epic sulk. He pouted and refused to speak for the entirety of the two hour ride. But he had gotten into the car with minimal fuss, as if resigned to his fate.

Sherlock's reflection in the window pulled a face. "God no. That would be the house in Kensington (1). I would have expired from boredom long ago if I had to live in this monstrosity all year around."

"Right, Kensington," he shook his head in disbelief. "Then what's this? The Holmes ancestral home?"

The driver came around and opened the car door. John continued staring after climbing out.

"It was and now it's Mummy's. The country air is better for her body nowadays." Sherlock was trying to affect a disinterested air as he handed their overnight bags to a servant. But John could tell he was awfully tense.

When they stepped over the threshold and into the foyer (a honest-to-God foyer!), John was too caught up in ogling the decor to take notice of the people already waiting for them. He stared at an oil painting hanging on one wall. He didn't know the artist, but it looked expensive and old.

"John," Sherlock called. "This is my mother, Violette Holmes."

To this day, John still couldn't say exactly what he had expected of the woman that gave birth to and raised sons like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps someone taller for one thing (she was only about an inch shorter than him while wearing what looked like sensible heels). Or someone more stern and frigid, maybe a bit like Dame Judi Dench as M (she smiled at him with two rows of pearly white teeth). Or even older (she looked to be in her mid-sixties).

John never felt more shabby and middle-class in his entire life than in that moment, dressed in one of his better button-downs and a pair of pressed work trousers. He offered a hand to Mummy Holmes when she approached. She took it, but instead of shaking it, she used it as leverage to pull him closer into her space and pressed an air kiss over both his cheeks. Over her shoulders, he could see Sherlock watching their interaction with a touch of shock.

"So good to finally meet you, Doctor Watson," she said pulling away. There was just the hint of an accent, one that John couldn't easily place.

"A pleasure, Mrs. Holmes. Thank you for having me."

Up close, her teeth were even whiter and more luminescent than he first thought. "Do call me Violette. We're so happy to have you join us for the holidays. Mycroft tells me you have no family of your own to spend it with. It's the least I can do since you brought my youngest home. He is stubborn, isn't he?"

John was too shell-shocked to really reply.

Sherlock wasn't amused. "Mummy..." he began.

"Hush, I'm trying to make a good impression with Doctor Watson," she scolded while still managing to keep a grin plastered on her lips or turning to look at her son. "He probably thought you were raised by wolves with the way you run about."

"Just John will do," he finally responded with a weak smile of his own.

Violette hadn't let go of his hand yet and was guiding him back over to where Sherlock stood by the stairs. She patted his hand softly before releasing him and turned her attention to her son. "Show John up to his room, he'll be staying in the guestroom across from your old bedroom in the East Wing. Some of your cousins are already here and will be staying in the West Wing. You can give John a tour of the house in the meanwhile. Réveillon (2) starts at seven, so be in the dining room by then."

"I don't know why you insist on calling it Réveillon if you're having it before midnight mass." Sherlock crossed his arms and stared resolutely at some fixed point on a wall.

When Violette looked up at her son, John thought he may have glimpsed a familiar hardness in her eyes. "Don't even think about running off or I will have Mrs. Bennett string you up in the kitchens until New Years," then she turned her attention back to John. "I do apologize for running off so soon, but I need to see how preparations for tonight are coming. No one ever gets my mama's goose recipe quite right."

She swept out of the room in a graceful storm of sea-foam green silk. The foyer felt a lot more empty without her presence to fill the space. Maybe that was what Sherlock had inherited from his mother in addition to her pale eyes?

Sherlock was already climbing the stairs when John looked back at his flatmate. He quickened his pace to catch up with the taller man. "Your mum's not exactly what I expected," John said after several more moments of walking. "She's positively friendly and loving, like a normal mum."

"Normal?" Sherlock said the word like a vile curse. "Mummy is an eccentric Frenchwoman, already independently wealthy, who married the youngest son of an old English family whose only remaining legacy at that point was their name and a crumbling estate. She is anything but ordinary."

"I guess if you put it that way..."

"Come along, John," Sherlock called.

And what could John do but follow?

-x-x-x-

Sherlock showed John around as his mother suggested. Anything to distract himself from thinking about the swarm of annoying relatives that were soon to descend on the dining hall. Thankfully, they didn't run into any of said relations while touring the grounds (some of them probably still looking to avoid Sherlock after that incident from the Christmas of '05). John continued to be easily impressed by everything, from Mummy's music conservatory where she kept her viola and bassoon on display to her vineyard now lying dormant in the winter under layers of geotextile fabric.

But time marched on despite John's fascination with the house or their little shared jokes. John wanted to change before dinner, even though Sherlock had insisted he was already suitably dressed ( _"Is everyone going to be as polished as you?"_  "I suppose—"  _"Then I need to change into my suit."_ ). He refrained from making an unflattering comment about John's old suit (almost six years old and an atrocious color), lest he decide to hold it against Sherlock and not speak to him for the entirety of the meal (now that would be hell on earth, forced to listen to nothing but cousin Marian's ramblings).

He sat on the edge of his bed, doing his best not to think about John in the room across the hall. He was smoothing out the wrinkles in the duvet when John finally came to get him. His friend held his elbow the entire way to the dining room (to prevent Sherlock from making an escape). Sherlock should have felt insulted that John thought it necessary (it actually was), but the fact that he found the gesture reassuring was a testament to how idiotic this entire endeavor really was.

Due to Sherlock's reluctance, they were the last to arrive so every eye (all twelve pairs of them) in the room was focused on them. To his credit, John didn't shrink back from the sudden onslaught, but he was clearly uncomfortable. Mycroft beckoned from his spot to the right of Mummy at the head of the table. Sitting across from his brother was a whole lot more appealing when the only other option appeared to be next to second cousin Henry.

Mummy cleared her throat, raised her flute of champagne, before speaking, "This will undoubtedly be one of the memorable Christmases of my life. As you all know, this is the year that my darling youngest, mon petit, came back to me. I'm so happy to have you home, Sherlock. And I want you to know that I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock had to swallow past the odd blockage in his throat when Mummy reached over to touch his fisted hand. He almost threw off her touch reflexively, but neither Mycroft or John was likely to let him hear the end of it if he did.

"To Sherlock," Mycroft (the fat smug git was reveling in Sherlock's discomfort) raised his glass in a toast.

Everyone at the table followed suit. John dared to snicker behind his flute.

Then Mummy directed her laser focus onto John. "I'm also pleased to have Dr. John Watson joining us this year. Thank you for taking care of Sherlock."

The tip of John's ears turned red when Mycroft led a second toast to him. Good, at least John was also sharing in the awkwardness. It'd teach him a lesson about getting Sherlock into this mess in the first place.

Grace was led by Mummy. Sherlock didn't bother to pretend to give a damn. Aunt Gretchen barely disguised her disapproval, which was split equally between his not caring and Mummy's use of a Catholic prayer.

"Bon appetit." Mummy declared at last.

The spread on the table was varied and impressive (Mummy always went all out for Réveillon). Cutlery banged as dishes as everyone started serving themselves (Aunt Gretchen snapped up the plate of oysters like it's the last meal she'd ever have, and one of Matthew and Anne's insufferable brats was already whining for dessert). It looked like his relatives might prefer to ignore him for the duration of the meal, which Sherlock could more than deal with.

John had a somewhat helpless expression on his face (overwhelmed by the number of choices and afraid of appearing uncouth). Sherlock rolled his eyes. John's insecurities were ridiculous. Sherlock stole several oysters off Aunt Gretchen (because he had never been fond of the old cow or that boorish son of hers) and slipped them onto John's plate. The action earned him a suspicious quirk of John's eyebrows.

Mummy piled food onto his plate, but Sherlock didn't touch any of it at first (much to her apparent exasperation). Instead, he focused on his various relatives to collect ammunition he was going to need against them. He kept one ear open to John's conversation with Mummy and Mycroft.

He deduced about all he could halfway through the meal. The other relatives were beginning to brave conversation with John. They asked him about his service in the army, which John deftly redirected the talk away from (not because he was ashamed, but as the war became more unpopular with time, idiots took it as license to lecture John personally on the follies of land war in Asia or even worse, question the worth of John's service). Instead, John talked about the traveling he had done in Sherlock's absence. Most of the stories were just as new for Sherlock as they were for the relatives that were just meeting John for the first time.

John hadn't previously talked much about the last two and a half years, except to say he had been traveling and doing freelance writing under a pen name. Sherlock never did find any of those pieces ( _"Which is the point of the pen name, Sherlock. And I_   _thought_   _you hated my writing."_ )

Then cousin Arthur (the current Earl de Grey as he was always quick to remind anyone who would listen to his inanities) gestured at Sherlock and asked loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone else, "So how'd you do it?"

"Excuse me?" He spat in his coldest tone.

"You know, how'd you pull it off? Faking your death? The papers never gave details." Arthur's eyes gleamed feverishly (he was keyed up then).

"It's none of your concern, Arthur." Most likely, his cousin was going to try and sell any information he did get to a tabloid for more drug money. He'd really rather not give the idiot any benefit.

Second cousin Katherine leaned forward across the table to join in the conversation. "How much are reporters offering you for an exclusive? That is why you've been holding out, right?"

Someone further down the table that Sherlock didn't immediately recognize (name deleted; the husband of a more distant aunt?) chimed in, "No, you should option your story as a Hollywood film. That's where the real money is."

Several other people chortled at the thought and started throwing out suggestions for said movie's title.

Bile churned in his stomach, threatening to dispel the few bites of food Sherlock had taken. Their laughter grated on his nerves, amplified by the room's high ceiling. The food in front of him was too sickeningly rich and all he could think about was the store-bought meals that he lived on while he was away. There had been nothing glamorous about being on the run and living like a fugitive. Sherlock hadn't actually had access to unlimited funds or even backup like what was suggested by the Interpol cover story.

He had been so alone (without John, there were moments when he doubted he would ever see London again), going half mad at times without puzzles to stimulate his mind (the siren call of a seven-percent solution particularly strong on those nights). There were the things he never thought he had to do again (not after rehab finally stuck) and the things he had never thought he would ever have to.

Last Christmas, he had been holed up in an abandoned apartment building on the outskirts of Detroit after failing to take a drug lord sufficiently by surprise. Last Christmas, Molly wouldn't stop sending him texts about John and Mary at her party (and the photo of them that Sherlock wanted to delete but didn't, now transferred and hiding in the depth of the memory card slotted into his current mobile). She thought she was helping. She wasn't. He had to call her to beg (Sherlock Holmes doesn't beg, except he hadn't been Sherlock Holmes for a very long time by then) her to cease—to stop torturing him with reminders of what he no longer had.

Unable to stomach the dark thoughts suddenly crowding his headspace, Sherlock stood swiftly. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed it away before falling back with a clatter. Mummy's eyes were pleading, begging him not to make a scene (like Christmases '96 to '05). John was the only person at the table looking at him with anything remotely similar to concern.

Sherlock silently stormed out of the room, trailed by his relatives' hushed whispers. He made it down the hall and around a corner before another set of footsteps thundered behind him.

"Sherlock," John called.

He lengthened his stride to put more distance between them. But John would not be deterred. A hand landed on Sherlock's shoulder, gripping it and spinning him around.

Sherlock couldn't hold back the floodgates anymore. All the things he had wanted to say in the presence of his extended family came spilling out with his flatmate as his lone audience. "Matthew and Anne are having marital problems  _again_. He's cheating on her yet again, with someone in her book club no less. Their youngest clearly has a learning disability and is in danger of being held back, but neither of them are willing to accept it. The good Earl is high, some ludicrously expensive designer drug. The brain-dead fool thinks the price is what makes the drug good. He's wrong, of course. The manufacturers are undercutting the purity with—"

"Stop it!" Stupid, stupid John was objecting on the basis of their right to privacy. Irrelevant!

Sherlock ripped his shoulder out of John's grip and continued, "Aunt Gretchen is ignoring her doctor's orders. With any luck, the old bat will finally expire from the infection. Katherine was just dumped by her latest boyfriend, and who can blame him when she has the IQ of a twelve year old with Down Syndrome. The only reason she's here tonight instead of drowning at the bottom of a gallon of ice cream is because she's hoping to 'hook up' with Henry for some pity sex. They've been on and off since they were teenagers. It's hopeless all the same, because Henry is so far in the closet that—"

"Enough! They're your family, Sherlock!"

"What is family but a shared set of chromosomes. Those people in there, the aunt, uncles, and distant cousins, they're not here to wish me well or welcome me back. They're here to gawk. That's all I've ever been to them since I was a child, some strange specimen of quasi-Holmesian genetics to poke and prod at."

"Look, I'm not saying they're not arses or that family can't be arse. I have Harry after all. But you're here for your mum's sake, the least you can do it make an effort for her and not throw a tantrum like the spoiled five-year-old you insist on being." John's brow was pinched and constipated looking. He was trying to empathize with Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to feel even the least bit grateful.

"And why should I 'play nice' with those morons? I will not suffer fools, family is certainly no excuse."

Sherlock could see the exact moment where his flatmate's temper snapped.

"You always do this, blow through like a hurricane and leave the rest of us to pick up after you. For once in your bloody life, stop acting like a child. Newsflash, Sherlock, you're thirty-seven, thirty-bloody-seven!"

"Spare me the tears, Saint John," Sherlock snarled and spat the words with a level of venom he had never directed at John before now. He watched with some satisfaction when the other man flinched. The resentment Sherlock had been nursing over the past two months bubbled and erupted to the surface, spewing vitriol like lava. He couldn't stop it.

He didn't want to stop.

He would not be stopped.

Sherlock crossed the space separating them in the blink of an eye. He loomed and crowded into John's space until they were almost standing flush against one another. "You always have to play the martyr, don't you? Maybe that's why you and Harry can't stand being in the same room? Your self-righteousness is nauseating enough. Well, bravo, everyone is tripping over themselves to take part in your melodrama. Poor you, always slighted by my callousness and thoughtlessness."

Mary's enraged expression on John's behalf came unwittingly to Sherlock.

John clenched and unclenched his left hand four times (a new record in the upper limit of times before John lashed out physically). "Don't you dare turn this around on me, Sherlock! You were the one who decided you didn't need anyone, not your friends or family, and ran off to play games with the schemes of a dead man. You left, you were the one that walked out on us. You can damn sure deal with the consequences of your selfishness now."

Sherlock's blood ran cold and his rage imparted him with an absolute calm. "If you're still waiting for me to  _apologize_ , don't hold your breath. You claim to be my friend, John, but not once have you inquired about my experiences while away. Why? Because you don't want to know! Because knowing everything about the squalor I had to hide in or the things I did for your sake, you wouldn't be able to play the victim anymore. That. Is. Your. Selfishness."

He never looked back at John once after he stormed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Kensington is an affluent neighborhood in the Greater London area. Fanon often has Sherlock growing up on a country estate, but I see my Sherlock in this story as a city boy through and through.
> 
> (2) Réveillon is the French traditional fest that tends to take place after midnight Mass. Mummy Holmes' version of Réveillon is a bit of a combination of the traditional British Christmas Eve dinner and what she grew up with as a child in France.


	5. Christmas Day & New Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as Sherlock is concerned, the family he was saddled with at birth is rubbish. He prefers the one he's unwittingly found instead.

John was none-too-gently drawn out of his dreams (on the verge of a nightmare) by a shout. He stared at the darkened canopy overhead. While comfortably wrapped in Egyptian cotton probably in the thousands for thread-count, John wondered if the noise was even real and not just a product of his racing mind.

He clawed around for his mobile. It was one in the morning. A majority of the Holmes family was attending midnight mass at the local Anglican church in the nearby village some hours ago. Perhaps they were just returning? No, Violette had said earlier that they were staying in another wing altogether.

A second shout shattered the calm and John was scrambling out of the room in nothing but a T-shirt and pants. The sound definitely came from the direction of Sherlock's room. He let himself in without a second thought, and crossed the floor to approach the bed. The curtains were drawn across the windows so John had a hard time making out what was happening.

More distressed noises issued from under the duvet.

"Sherlock, it's just nightmares." He didn't have time to fully consider just how strangely reversed their roles were.

Sherlock's body twisted violently and his limbs tried to flail, but they were trapped under the duvet. John reached out to gently shake his friend's shoulders. It didn't garner him the reaction he had hoped for. As John's fingers barely grazed the covered shoulders, Sherlock jackknifed off the mattress and lunged at John. John wasn't prepared for the sudden assault and they fell to the ground in a heap of limbs. His flatmate was straddled his abdomen and wrapped his long fingers around his neck.

"Sherlock..." he wheezed around the grip on his throat and planted both hands on Sherlock's (bare!) chest to push away. "Wake up!"

The fingers remained in place, cradling his trachea but not quite squeezing. Sherlock was crouched over him and bent forward until his exhalations played against the fabric by John's clavicle.

"John?"

"Do you mind getting off of me? You're starting to crush me."

Sherlock wasn't actually crushing him. His weight on John's chest was solid and warm, but it was starting to give John ideas best left unexplored. After a few seconds, Sherlock eased back before climbing off of him. John sat up and groped for the lamp he saw bedside before, flooding the room with soft, yellow glow. Sherlock shrunk back from the light, pressing himself against the bedframe.

"It's okay, it was just a bad dream. You're okay." John said soothingly.

"Who said I was having nightmares? Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock snarled and drew his body into a tighter ball.

John snorted. "Right, so the sweaty sheen, labored breathing, and elevated heart-rate are the results of a night well-rested."

His friend glared in return, his arm muscles twitching from tension. He refused to say anything more.

He swallowed before continuing, "You don't have to hide it, not from me."

People tended to make a lot of assumptions about John's character based on his association with Sherlock. He supposed everyone would probably appear to be the most empathetic human being next to Sherlock. But John was human—his patience had its limits, a dangerous predilection toward gambling, and he could be just as unreasonable as any other person. John Watson was not above pettiness (he had Harry to thank for that), he could be just as malicious and hurtful if pushed (the urge to bash Jim Moriarty's head in would never leave him; on bad days, he had half the mind to bring Moriarty back just for the satisfaction of doing that). He'd had bad days and he knew what it felt like to take another person's life in cold-blood.

So Sherlock's earlier words and the realization that followed had struck John like a physical blow. He had been so blinded by his own grief and anger that he never thought to look at his friend's pain and suffering. After all, wasn't he supposed to the one person to see Sherlock as ridiculously human as the rest of them, filled with insecurities?

 _You were the best man, and the most human ... human being that_   _I've_   _ever known..._

John had been so fucking selfish.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he scooted closer to the man huddled against the bed. It was probably not the smartest move: trapping Sherlock Holmes. "You were right. I have been selfish in a lot of ways and you haven't made it any easier."

"You know how I am."

"Yeah, I know. You steamrolled back into my life, acting like nothing at all has changed. I assumed you didn't want to talk about what happened. Sherlock, you know I'm not as smart as you. I can't deduce things like you do and I'm not psychic. I can't know anything you haven't told me."

In the dim light, John had the opportunity to study the scar curved from behind Sherlock's ear and down toward his chin. On the most part, it had healed correctly and the scar tissue was minimal.

It was so quiet out in the countryside. John remembered long drives on stretches of road where he didn't pass people for hours sometimes. It was so easy to forget that with the hustle and bustle of London. And here at the Holmes estate, it felt like they were completely cut off from the world—as if they were the only two people in the world.

"Will you tell me about what happened while you were away?" John ventured forward after long moments of uninterrupted silence. Sherlock hadn't given much detail about what he did, mostly a list of countries he had hopped between while pulling apart Moriarty's web strand by strand. Not that John had been listening too closely at the time, he was too wrapped up in the idea of Sherlock returning from the dead then.

Sherlock's eyes were sharp when he finally turned to look at John. "Will you tell me about what you were hiding then?"

He winced. He had really hoped Sherlock would forget about it. "No, not yet. I'm not ready."

"Neither am I," was his friend's brusque reply.

The ire returned in full force. Sherlock had promised to drop it; he had promised to stop it. "Sherlock, don't you dare use this as leverage to pry—"

A pale gaze pinned John to his spot on the floor, trapping the rest of what he would have said in his throat. "No,  _I_ don't want to talk about it. It's not something I particularly want to share with anyone, least of all you. I'm not proud of some of the things I had to do. I'd rather they not color your perception of me and create difficulties for our partnership." Sherlock had turned his head away, focusing on the pattern in his duvet.

John recognized the shame braced in the other man's every muscle—the way his triceps and deltoids tensed and the strained lines of his face in profile. His heart ached for Sherlock and for all the hardships he must have faced on his own. John had been lucky in that regard. In the years they had been apart, John had Mary, Greg (and Molly), and all the other people in between. Sherlock was dead to the world, a lone soldier trapped behind enemy lines with no rescue in sight.

"It's all fine," the mantra had served John well over the years. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But I'm here to listen if you do. I'll try to be better, less judgmental. You're my best friend and I want what's best for you."

Eventually some of the defensiveness bled out of Sherlock's posture. John was about to leave and retreat back to his room for the rest of the night when Sherlock spoke up, "I know you believe me to be capable of great cruelty, John—"

He had to butt in. "Every human being is capable of cruelty."

Sherlock continued on but averted his eyes away. "I never meant to hurt you that much. I hadn't intended for you to be there to watch me jump."

"What?"

"Remember the call you got about Mrs. Hudson being shot?"

John did remember. He also remembered how angry he had been with Sherlock.  _You machine!_

Then the realization dawned on him. "You set that up." It shouldn't have come as a surprise to him. Sherlock had meticulously planned every other aspect of his fake death.

Sherlock's tone was accusing. "And you weren't supposed to come right back. You were supposed to stay with Mrs. Hudson. But you came back, why did you do that?"

The horror that John felt that day may very well never leave him. He had spent too much time since replaying the events of the day, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He remembered all too well that moment when their landlady smiled at him and asked if Sherlock had finally sorted it all out. "You were expecting me to abandon you?"

"No, I was expecting you to take it as a warning and stay behind to protect her. You weren't supposed to turn right around and come back to Bart's. When you did, I was forced to include you in the final act. I had hoped I wouldn't need them, but there were contingencies in place to keep you from coming too close."

John squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of a bloody halo. "You didn't tell me this before. You never said I wasn't meant to see those last moments. Why didn't you tell me that when you first explained what happened?"

"Would it really have made a difference? My actions have hurt you all the same."

"Dammit, Sherlock!" He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's elbows. He hoped the contact would hold the other man's attention. "It matters to me. Because you made it sound like some grand mastermind scheme that you had planned down to the very last detail, including my own bloody reactions. It helps me to forgive you knowing that your intention wasn't to use my grief as a brutal tool."

His friend was watching him again, searching. "But my final phone call was a part of the plan. Its content was changed only marginally due to your proximity. You were always going to be my suicide note. I...couldn't imagine calling anyone else. Your grief was instrumental to the plan."

"Stop being a git. I'm trying the forgive you here."

"And I'm not asking for it," Sherlock snapped, clearly having lost patience. "I regret causing you pain, John, but I will not apologize for saving your life, or Lestrade's or Mrs. Hudson's. If I were ever to encounter the same situation again, my actions and choice would remain the same."

"No, Sherlock. You won't. Because you'll damn well let me in and we'll come up with a less shitty plan. Or at least take me with you. You need the backup."

Or John hoped,  _you need me and I need you._

John held Sherlock's gaze, willing him to understand. "I can't do  _that_ again, not for a second time. I watched a lot of good men die during war. I've lost friends too, good ones. I helped to bury so many of them. But losing you was like having my heart ripped out. I won't survive that a second time. So you either put that bullet in my head yourself or take me with you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock's eyes were almost green, swimming with the emotions he liked to pretend he didn't have. He closed them for the briefest interval, barely longer than a blink. But John could see the resolve settle into the lines of Sherlock's face. "There is nothing more that I could want other than you by my side."

It was so close to what John imagined as a Sherlockian love confession that he had to fight the tears back. The declaration was more than he imagined he would ever get.

And it was more than enough for now.

-x-x-x-

Despite the late night, the household always rose early for Christmas morning. When Sherlock was a child, they as a family of four (Mummy, Father, Mycroft, and him) would go out for breakfast before returning home to open presents. Then his father died when he was eight and Mycroft went away to Oxford when Sherlock was ten. With just him and Mummy, life had been suffocating.

In her later years, Mummy now preferred the company of the extended family on the Holmes side. It was not something she used to seek out when Sherlock was younger. It had been years since Sherlock had last seen or heard about any of Mummy's family in France.

Sherlock didn't go back to sleep after John went back to his room. Part of him had wanted to ask John to stay. Whether he had held back for wanting not to appear weak or for the sake of John's fiercely guarded heterosexuality, he could not say for sure. He spent the predawn hours browsing online in hopes of an interesting case—any excuse to make an early exit.

With just minutes before John's usual wake up time, he slipped into John's room after ordering a light breakfast to be brought up. Sherlock drew back the curtains, folded himself into the chair by the windows, and waited for John to awaken.

John's face was interesting when he slept. Always different than any expression he wore during waking hours. He looked younger in his sleep (but most people did with their features slackened). Even without the night terrors, John was not the quietest sleeper. He always rolled around in bed, as if his body couldn't quite accept the idea of stillness. Sherlock deduced that this was a source of contention with some of John's past bed partners. But had he always been like this? Even in Afghanistan? Or before? Or was this something new upon returning to London?

Sherlock was in the middle of contemplating his flatmate's sleeping habit when said flatmate blearily opened one eye. For a heart stopping moment, they stared at one another across the room—Sherlock with his bare feet and his dressing gown and John with his disheveled hair laid flat against the pillow. Then John buried his face into his pillow and groaned. The rest of what he said was completely lost in the goose down.

A knock sounded against the door.

"Come in," Sherlock called without a second thought.

The maid froze soon after entering the door, suddenly aware she might be intruding on something. Sherlock was pleased when John didn't panic at her entrance.

"Please tell me there's coffee," John pleaded.

The maid nodded mutely after she deposited the tray on a table.

"No sugar, three teaspoons of milk, just the way you like it." Sherlock announced, feeling somewhat proud of his forethought.

"Thank you," John directed his gratitude to the maid alone.

Sherlock frowned.

The maid then left, but not before one last suspicious glance between the two men.

"You're doing it again, being creepy," John declared climbing out of bed in his T-shirt and pants. "It's a good thing I'm not looking to hook up with any of your relatives, because I'm guaranteed to strike out after this."

He scrunched his nose in disgusting. "Don't be vulgar, John. They're all hideously vapid."

The blond man made a vague placating noise while slathering a scone in jam. "Yeah, but one of them's an earl. Can't beat hereditary peerage." The grin was cheeky and there was crumbs tucked away in its corner (Sherlock wanted to swipe them away with a brush of his thumb).

"You're a bit rough for Arthur's taste." He arched a sardonic eyebrow at the man now trying to hide his smile behind the rim of his coffee cup.

"Is he really an earl?"

"Regrettably yes, he inherited the title from his father, my father's oldest brother." He reached over and nipped the corner of John's scone. "And he never lets anyone forget it."

"I know, he was like a bloody broken record. After a while, I wanted to shoot him myself."

Their collective giggles filled the room, making everything lighter and more free. So far, this was one of the best Christmas Sherlock could recall since he was seven years old.

-x-x-x-

John was on alert as soon as Mycroft asked for a moment of his time. He looked helplessly in Sherlock's direction, but the taller man was far too absorbed in conversation (more like sulking) with his mother to notice John's predicament. Mycroft would not to be ignored, so John was forced to trail after the man through a maze of hallways and staircases.

Anthea was waiting in front of one of the doors down a maroon-colored hall. Her eyes never left her Blackberry as she swung one arm over and held open the door for them.

It was a study, but not the kind John would have expected in a manor like this. The decor was almost understated and reminded him of his grandfather's old consultation room when he still practiced medicine.

Mycroft was at least a good a mind-reader as his brother. "This was our grandfather's study. He preferred something more low-key. Please have a seat, John."

There were two wing-back armchairs arranged by the window on the left side of the room, overlooking the back gardens. The cushion was plush as John eased into one of them. The setup was meant to be comfortable and put visitors at ease. It would have worked if Mycroft Holmes (and the reticent Anthea standing guard outside) wasn't part of the equation somehow. On the circular table sitting between the two armchairs rested a manila folder.

"Please, go ahead, John." Mycroft gestured to the folder.

The front was unlabeled, so it offered no clues as to the contents within. John was prepared to guess it was a case that Mycroft wanted Sherlock to look into and needed John to convince Sherlock to do just that. It wasn't. It took John a few moments to realize it was a surveillance log of his activities, dated October of the year of Sherlock's "suicide." He hadn't realized that Mycroft had been watching in the interim while Sherlock was away.

The log detailed John's daily routine, which mainly consisted of going to work at the hospital, eating out, going home, and doing the shopping. God, his life had been so utterly boring without Sherlock and before meeting Mary.

Speaking of which... His first meeting with Mary—drinks at a pub with no mention of the Vetala hunting beforehand—was highlighted mid-October in the report. Creepy, though not unexpected. What followed was a detailed background check on Mary (including her father's service records), which he passed over out of respect for her privacy. The next part was decidedly less appreciated.

Photos, some from direct surveillance and others were stills taken from CCTV footage, and all of them were of him and Mary. John wasn't actually alarmed by any of them until he got to the ones that were clearly of them going to and coming from a hunt. His mind reeled. How was he going to explain to Mycroft? To outsiders, what did it even look like for him and Mary to be doing the things they did along with the weapons they both illegally owned?

Probably a lot like a group of militant and delusional nutcases.

"No need to be alarmed, John," Mycroft's words gave him a start and broke John out of his reverie. "I am apprised of the true nature of your recent work."

John stared, because it just sounded like the British government was completely aware of the supernatural. He had to be sure. "Just to make sure we're both on the same page, so you know all about ghosts and hunters?"

"Of course, one only needs to be observant to see the reality of our world."

"So all this time that I was trying to avoid your notice, you already knew?" John rubbed the bridge of his nose irritably. A headache was beginning to form.

"It would seem so. If it's any consolation, you and your partner have done an admirable job so far."

"Wait," John's heart was racing again. "Does Sherlock know?"

Mycroft gave him a don't-be-dull look. It must run in the family.

"Right, right." Of course, Sherlock didn't know. He certainly would have said something by now if he did. "Are you going to tell him?"

Mycroft appeared appalled by the very thought. "Sherlock gets into enough trouble as it is with the mundane. I shudder to think what he may get up to if he were to know, and certainly not when he was younger. You didn't know him seven, eight years ago, but I do not relish the thought of what sort of deals he may have made."

"Huh, so you know about crossroad demons and deals too. Wait, don't tell me you have a team of super elite hunters stowed somewhere to handle the big stuff, like Torchwood." John's imagination was already beginning to get away from him, envisioning teams of hunters decked out in tactical gear and wielding pump-action tactical rifles packed with salt rounds. He snickered.

Mycroft cast his eyes heavenwards, probably because he considered himself too dignified to do something as plebeian as rolling his eyes. "No, John. Your community hasn't ever been very forthcoming with the necessary intelligence. And how many of the ones you know would willingly work for the government?"

John was forced to admit not too many. There was definitely a certain type of hunter that just clashed with any and all authority figures.

"So why are we here then? If you know anything about hunters, you know we tend to shy away from the spotlight. It's not exactly something we like to announce to the world and get subsequently sectioned for. If this is some sort of a game to you—"

His heart dropped into his stomach. Mycroft's intentions were never clear. Not everyone that found out about the supernatural were ready to accept it. John had seen just as many people turn a blind eye to the truth after finding out. They often wanted nothing to do with the supernatural and go back to their normal lives.

Mycroft was the one person who had the power to keep John from Sherlock.

The older man held up one placating hand and shook his head. "Let us call this an informal statement of intent. I have no intentions of interfering with your side business, John. In fact, I approve. My personal policy has always been to allow hunters to act independently. I have no interest in restricting or revealing their activities. Your community has been surprisingly effective at monitoring your own."

He was still suspicious. "What do you want from me then?"

"I want you to stay by Sherlock's side."

John stared. "Did I hear you right?"

"John, I am well aware that there are things in the world that I cannot protect my brother from. I have already failed him once and I know it's only a matter of time before I fail him again, if only because of his sheer stubbornness and his refusal to take my help. You have already proven yourself committed to protecting Sherlock in any number of ways. This is yet another area where you alone can safeguard him. You have my full support to do whatever is necessary, John."

Shouting erupted from the other side of the door before John could formulate a reply. Mycroft glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner and snapped the file folder close before vanishing it out of sight.

"And it appears we are out of time," the older man declared just as the door burst open.

Sherlock pushed Anthea aside roughly and barreled through the doorway. He stopped just inches away from John's chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What are you doing, Mycroft?"

Mycroft offered one of his plastic and insincere smiles. "I was just ensuring that John's visit has been pleasant so far. You should join us for Easter lunch in the spring. Mummy is especially eager to show off the gardens and vineyard then."

John was fairly sure that one Holmes family get-together was going to be scarring enough for one lifetime.

Without any warning, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and hauled him to his feet. "Come on, John. Mummy has called for Christmas dinner. If we don't hurry, there'll be nothing left between Mycroft and Cecil's ravenous appetites."

John was too thrown by the feel of Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his wrist to do anything but follow the pull at his arm. He tried to calm his racing, traitorous heart instead. He could barely remember what it was like to have their fingers intertwined. The last time had been years ago and they had other things to worry about than the slide of their palms against one another. He ached to relearn the sensations.

"John, I leave Sherlock to your care as ever." Mycroft's words were laced with amusement. It was like being doused with a bucket of ice cold water.

"I don't need a keeper!" Sherlock dropped John's hand growled before stalking out of the study.

John turned briefly to consider what to say as a parting shot. "Sherlock's well-being has always been my priority. Our conversation changes nothing. I'm not doing it for your sake."

Mycroft nodded in approval, but John didn't care about his approval. He quickened his pace to catch up with Sherlock. He'd hate to get left behind now.

-x-x-x-

As dictated by British tradition, Christmas dinner was held at noon. Mummy held the function in a larger room than the one for Réveillon. They needed the extra space as an additional dozen or so people turned up by 11AM. On the upside, the increased number of family members meant any given individual was less likely to pay attention to Sherlock after the perfunctory greeting.

The family managed to make it through dinner with minimal fuss this time. No doubt his relatives had been talking among themselves about his behavior at Réveillon. After dinner, the family spread out across a number of sitting room; the adults nursing glasses of sherry while the children ran about with their prizes from the Christmas crackers. Sherlock sat in the corner, drumming his fingers impatiently against his thigh. He wanted nothing more than to escape this gilded prison.

He glanced across the room to where John was stuck talking to a group of second cousins. The view was suddenly obscured by his mother moving into his line of sight and offering him a glass of sherry. She raised an eyebrow when he didn't immediately take the glass. Sherlock heaved a great sigh, took it, and placed it down without taking a sip. Mummy sat down in the empty seat next to him and he couldn't help but tense in response.

When she spoke, it was in French. "You were never an easy child to raise, especially after your father passed. You had far more in common with him than me. Too smart, too undisciplined."

"Discipline, fraternité, service." He recited dryly. He had tried to delete the Vernet family motto on multiple occasions, but never successfully. The things drilled into him since childhood were always the most difficult to erase. "We can't all be perfect like Mycroft."

She continued in spite of his attempt to needle her, "I know I didn't always do right by you. I stifled you as a child and you spent the next twenty years rebelling. It's only in hindsight now that I realize that was the worst possible thing I could have done for a child of your intellect. I had it relatively easy with Mycroft and I didn't know how to handle you. There were days when it felt like we didn't even speak the same languages."

Sherlock changed his mind. He was going to need alcohol (and lots of it) if he going to sit here and be subjected to his mother's maudlin ramblings. "Well, bully for you. Is there a point to this inanity? Or have you finally becoming doddering in your old age?" He muttered, disgruntled into the sherry.

She glared at him down the length of her aquiline nose. "That cruel streak of yours is perhaps where I failed you the most."

"Lack of remorse and a reckless disregard of others," he quoted from memory. "Remember, Mummy?"

He watched with a bit of relish as her face twisted into an ugly expression, resplendent in its visible regret. "I should have never taken you to that doctor."

Sherlock had been sixteen when it happened, the first and only psychologist he ever saw. "And you wouldn't have if you hadn't already suspected there was something wrong with me."

He searched for an exit from the conversation and came up with six, the most dramatic of which included deducing exactly why Henrietta couldn't make today's festivities. Something must have given him away because John had extracted himself from the gaggle and was headed straight for him.

Mummy suddenly closed her hands around his, tightening in a grip that her age belied. "I am proud of everything that you've accomplished. I know I haven't always been nor have I been there when you needed me the most. But most of all, I'm relieved to see that you've found someone to love you as you are. That is something worth holding onto. Don't let anyone, least of all what you think me to be, try to convince you otherwise."

Forgiveness was not something that may ever come naturally to Sherlock. But there were moments when he was tempted to try anyway. Mummy was not perfect, and often the bad memories of their fraught relationship (the way she used to wield her disappointment like a cudgel) seemed to exponentially outnumber the good ones (the awe she had instilled in him for music and the violin). But he couldn't (not yet; wasn't ready to).

She released his hand, patted it softly, and stood. John regarded them with an air of caution, probably afraid he might be intruding. The smile that Mummy gave John could be strung and used to light the Christmas tree. John was stunned when she hugged him and spoke into his ear. They were perfectly angled so that Sherlock could read his mother's lips.

"Welcome to the family. Please come visit with Sherlock as often as you like."

John watched Mummy leave with slackened jaws. "I think your mum may have the wrong idea about us."

Sherlock sighed. Didn't everyone? But John didn't launch into his usual protestation. Odd...

"Hey, you okay?" John asked and his eyes were unusually bright.

He stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit jacket. "Let's go home."

-x-x-x-

Sherlock's hope that the rest of the dreadful holiday simply pass in peace was dashed within hours of returning to 221B Baker Street. With the news of Lestrade's upcoming promotion, John decided he had to throw a bit of a do for New Years Eve. His only consolation was that John promised to keep it small and invite only "close friends." Unfortunately for him, the category of close friends included Mary Morstan.

Come December 31st, he spent most of the day not speaking to John, replying only necessary through chords played on his violin. John took the silence in aplomb, devoting his energy to picking up the flat rather than dealing with Sherlock's "sulk." It was amusing to watch John fret though (something he learned from watching his parents over the years, very middle-class). Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat around eight and shooed Sherlock into his room to change out of his dressing gown into something presentable. And if he took longer than usual to get dressed, it certainly had nothing to do with hearing Mary Morstan arriving just minutes later.

Lestrade and Molly filed in about an hour later (he offered to drive her over and she was more than a bit moony over him). Lestrade distracted Mary for a good while talking about school and his children (he got to see them over the holiday, but only briefly as things were a bit awkward with the ex-wife and her new husband [the marriage won't last; she was a serial adulterer]). So it was bearable for some time until Mrs. Hudson started asking about their Christmas plans and Mycroft. Sherlock remained silent as John enthusiastically described the house and some of Sherlock's relatives.

Both Lestrade and Molly favored him with a speculative look as John's gesticulations grew wilder with every drop of alcohol consumed.

Someone had turned on the telly so they could listen for the countdown in the background. Mary was infuriatingly intimate in her touches and proximity toward John. Sherlock just wanted the torturous night to end (and actually looked forward to crawling into his bed for once).

With minutes to midnight, Lestrade popped a bottle of cheap champagne. "To promotions!" Lestrade raised a glass with a throaty laugh.

The declaration was followed by a round of "cheers!"

"To friends," added Molly.

Mrs. Hudson chimed in afterwards and regarded everyone with a fond expression. "To family."

"To love," was Mary's quiet but hackle-raising contribution.

John took longer. Probably because it took a few seconds of actual brainpower to come up with a benediction less trite than the rest of theirs. "To miracles and their impossibilities." He was wearing his private smile (an in-joke, something he shared with Mary?).

They were all looking at him now. They were expecting him to offer up something as well. But what? He didn't feel like he had anything to give (not like Molly or Lestrade's acceptance; not like Mrs. Hudson's obvious affection; not like John's...everything).

"To second chances" was all Sherlock managed to mutter.

The kiss that John and Mary shared at the stroke of midnight was brief and chaste—nothing like the flirty one between Molly and Lestrade. It was comfortable and familiar. And Sherlock had the inexplicable urge to rend Mary Morstan limb from limb (peel back the skin between her shoulder blades where she shared an identical mark with John).

Not good, definitely not good...


	6. January & February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cases, experiments, blog entries, crime scenes: all signs that things are finally returning to the way they should be. But without meaning to, something between them is starting to change.

When John says he isn't gay, he means it.

For him, there was a whole other set of baggage in being bisexual. It was early in his university days that he first learned the folly of just saying "yes" to such a question for simplicity's sake, especially when he hooked up equally with students of both gender. After the third misunderstanding with a male fling who was convinced John was still in denial or in the closet, he learned to say "no, I'm bisexual" and then finally just "no, I'm not gay."

Since then, the majority of John's relationships had been with women—most of whom never even knew John's sexual orientation and presumed him straight. Meeting women was just easier. It was what society expected of him. If she wasn't straight, they could both brush off his flirting with minimal fuss. Chatting up men, though, was like dealing with a whole keg of gunpowder. Best case scenario was that straight men would get awkward, and worst case scenario could be a stay in a hospital bed. And flirting with gay men, especially the obvious and flamboyant ones...?

Let's just say that John had his fill of homosexual men who were convinced that he was ashamed and self-hating. He knew exactly who and what he was, thank you very much.

So that attempt at Angelo's that Sherlock thought was John's clumsy attempt at chatting him up probably was just that. John could forgive himself for that moment of weakness, because there he was having dinner with a gorgeous and brilliant man (John always had a soft spot for the smart ones), who had just said that girlfriends were "not his area." But he knew when to back off—how much more "not interested" can you get than "married to my work"?

John always did resent the implication that he would hump anything that moved just because he was bisexual.

No, that hadn't been the problem and John, ever practical, knew better than to pine. Whatever brief flares of attraction were promptly squashed on John's part, because the friendship and partnership they had was worth more than an ill-advised fling with a flatmate. The problem was that John had stupidly fallen in love with said flatmate somewhere along the way—and then hadn't realized it.

Not until it was too late.

Now said flatmate (formerly deceased but never really) had returned, and John had stupidly agreed to resume their former relationship. He had never been more aware of his feelings or their futility. God, he was an idiot, a masochist, and absolutely deserved everything that was happening.

-x-x-x-

John barely blinked, and it was already January 6th. He palmed the gift-wrapped box from one hand to the other, unsure exactly how to approach Sherlock. They hadn't exchanged Christmas gifts (Sherlock had vehemently and loudly resisted the idea). But surely birthdays were the exception?

Not that Sherlock ever did anything for his birthday. The only reason John even knew the date was because Mycroft had visited one year (after the first time Irene Adler died), dripping in condescension and supposed "good will."

It was stupid to get so worked up over giving a present to a friend. Oh, if only that was all of it. Because Sherlock wasn't just anyone, wasn't just any friend, and nowadays he inspired the sort of feelings that John knew weren't strictly platonic. That wasn't even the part that troubled John the most (he knew what unrequited feelings were like long before Sherlock).

It was the present—a wristwatch, and John had the anti-possession symbol laser etched on the inside of the watch.

That was the real point of the gift—to guard Sherlock against possible invasion by infernal forces. It would be so much easier if he could get Sherlock tattooed instead (somehow without his consent or knowledge, which was impossible and completely unethical). There was no guarantee Sherlock would even wear it and not just lose it somewhere in his piles of junk. The wristwatch, like any charm, would only be effective so long as Sherlock kept it on his person. A necklace of some sort would have been better, but Sherlock wasn't one to wear jewelry and even Sherlock wasn't so clueless as to not realize most men didn't give other men jewelry.

John sighed to himself and to the empty room.

Then Sherlock emerged suddenly from his bedroom, still clad in his pajamas even though it was close to noon. John panicked and tried to hide the box by stuffing it between the sofa cushions. Sherlock, who had been headed toward the kettle in the kitchen, made an agitated turn and came toward John instead. The tall man threw himself onto the seat next to him and held out one hand, fingers wiggling impatiently.

"Well?" There was a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

John tried not to stare too openly. "What?" he asked. Really, trying to play dumb never worked with his flatmate. Why did he even try?

A tortured sigh issued from Sherlock. It was a sound that John was intimately acquainted with, and often accompanied by the detective's don't-be-dull look. "The present, John. The one you've been agonizing over giving for the last week. Hand it here."

"Have I been that obvious?"

"Positively transparent." Sherlock drawled with an eye roll.

John dug out the slightly rumpled gift and placed it gingerly in Sherlock's upturned palm. Sherlock turned the package over twice in his hand before speaking, "Hand wrapped with wrapping paper you took from Mary's, a wristwatch, not cheap, but not too expensive either. I'm guessing around a hundred quid."

"Oh, you must be loads of fun at parties."

"Need I remind you of Christmas?" Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow.

John smothered a giggle.

Sherlock managed to unwrap the gift without tearing the wrapping paper. The box was embossed with the watchmaker's logo. Before he had even opened the box, Sherlock was examining it like a crime scene. The silence and concentration was unnerving.

John fixed his stare on his lap, where his fingers were digging into his thigh. "I wasn't sure what to get. Every man could use a decent watch, I suppose. I know it's not much, especially considering how wealthy your family turned out to be. It probably won't even match up with your suits, but it's baffling how much a 'good' wristwatch can cost. Didn't even understand—"

Sherlock abruptly climbed to his feet and was gone, his bedroom door closing behind him with a soft snick. He had taken the box with him, but hadn't looked at or said anything to John. John remained frozen on the sofa, trying to figure out exactly what happened. Had his stupid babbling offended Sherlock? Had his gift offended and now Sherlock was off to dispose of it in the appropriate fashion? His head drooped in disappointment and he buried his face into his hands.

He must have made such a stupid tit of himself.

Minutes later, Sherlock strolled out. He was dressed now, having exchanged his pajamas for one of his many suits. The suit jacket was slung across one arm as he did up the buttons of his right cuff. When he shifted to his left cuff seconds later, the sleeve pulled back to reveal John's gift sitting high on Sherlock's wrist. The wristwatch's dark leather strap stood in stark contrast against the milky white of his skin.

"Lunch?" Sherlock asked, while pointedly not looking at the watch as he pulled on his suit jacket.

"Starving." John turned his face in time to hide the no doubt beaming smile now gracing his face.

-x-x-x-

Lestrade's promotion came through a week later. It was immediately followed by an official invitation to Sherlock and John to work with Lestrade's new homicide investigation team as outside consultants. If the six month probational period worked out (measured in terms of cases successfully closed and prosecuted), other teams in the Met would also be able to request their aid.

Sherlock was beyond ecstatic, as if someone had just delivered a dozen fresh cadavers to their doorstep. But before any of that could happen, there were contracts, paperwork, certifications, and any number of bureaucratic red-tape to conquer first. Sherlock, predictably, was of little help. John was left to slough through the mountain of paperwork on his own, until one day Anthea mercifully dropped by 221B with a folder of completed forms on Sherlock's behalf.

At least they were going to be paid for police cases now. So John was less worried about having to find work to supplement his meager pension.

After another week of training seminars (which they shared with rookie cops and which Sherlock made the experience as hellish as possible for everyone involved), they were issued basic credentials to be worn at crime scenes. Sherlock had scoffed and muttered something about pickpocketing Lestrade's warrant card.

Their first actual crime scene wasn't until the end of the month though. It was five in the morning and John was still more than half asleep when Sherlock jostled him from bed. He wasn't sure when or how he even got dressed. Because before he knew it, Sherlock bundled him into a cab summoned from somewhere. John dozed lightly during the ride over to the background drone of Sherlock mumbling to himself. He was rudely awakened once again by his flatmate shaking him roughly before rocketing out the door. John barely counted when he shoved a fistful of notes in the driver's direction (poor chap deserved the extra tip for chauffeuring a madman this early).

John guessed they may be in Soho.

Sherlock was under the tape and behind police perimeters without so much as a by your leave. The constable guarding the perimeter yelped, "Excuse me, sir, you can't—"

Sherlock didn't stop or look back after deftly dodging around the copper like a demented but determined bat.

John jogged over the constable and thrust his credentials forward. "Sorry about my friend there. He's Sherlock Holmes and I'm Dr. John Watson. Detective Inspector Lestrade asked us to come."

The constable (mid-twenties; God, she looked so young or he was getting that old...) handed the credentials back without even reading it. Her eyes were wide and she looked a bit star-struck when she turned to follow Sherlock's progress across the scene. "Oh god, it's really him. I'd heard rumors."

Then Sherlock pivoted mid-stride and called, "John, stop flirting. We have work to do."

"Ta." John's ears were burning as he ducked under the tape to follow his partner.

Lestrade met them by the door of the club, already bleary-eyed and sleep deprived just weeks into his appointment.

"How long can you give me?" Sherlock asked in lieu of a greeting.

"And a good morning to you too, sunshine." Lestrade was snarky, which was probably a good sign. "John."

"How. Long?"

"Ten minutes tops and then I gotta give the SOCOs (1) their run of the scene."

There were two bodies lying just inches away from one another in one of the interior offices. Donovan was already in the office examining the interior when they got there. As soon as she saw Sherlock, she wheeled back away from the bodies and moved closer to the entrance. Sherlock had a look in his eyes and his mouth was falling open to address, or more likely, insult her.

Donovan wouldn't give him the chance. "The female victim is nineteen-year-old Cheryl Jones. She's the daughter of an MP. The male victim is thirty-five-year-old Henry Daley, the owner of the club. The cleaning staff discovered them at approximately 4:20."

Sherlock traded his leather gloves for a pair of the nitrite ones that he extracted from John's pocket. His attention had already moved away from needling Donovan to the crime scene before him. The three of them stood back as the consulting detective dove forward to begin his examination.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "Never thought I'd be doing this again. The band all back together..." The detective gestured vaguely between the people in the room—corpses included.

John nodded in agreement. His eyes were still fixed on Sherlock's back, as he crouched down to consider some piece of evidence. "Me neither." Three months ago, Sherlock was still dead to the world and John had no intention of resettling back in London.

"But it's good to be back."

Even Donovan gave a small, hesitant smile at Lestrade's declaration. They stood back and watched Sherlock work (all frazzled energy and rapid mumbling) for another minute or two. Sherlock straightened up and moved to the office desk littered with paperwork.

"John, time of death?" asked Sherlock.

Sometimes, John wasn't sure why his friend even bothered to ask. Sherlock knew enough to make his own educated guess before the lab work could be done. John looked over to Lestrade for permission, who nodded. He pulled on the other pair of nitrite gloves Sherlock had slipped into his other coat pocket. He gently cradled the wrist of the male victim first before handling the younger, female one.

"Based on rigor, I'd say about five, six hours? Cause of death is probably the three gunshots they each took to the chest. I think they were moved after death, someone turned them over onto their fronts." John shifted his weight back onto the heel of his feet before looking up to Sherlock to confirm his conclusions.

A slight grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Precisely. Someone, two people actually, came into this office approximately an hour before the cleaning crew. They were looking for something, and searched the bodies for whatever it was but not the rest of the office."

John nodded absently. There was that portion of his brain that was searching for signs of possible supernatural involvement (looking for traces of sulfur and itching for his EMF scanner). It didn't help, as he never crime scenes this fresh to work with for his cases. He always came onto the scene hours, if not days afterwards. He did his best to turn it off and focus on the deductions Sherlock was now hurling at Lestrade.

"Sherlock," the warning in Lestrade's voice couldn't have been any clearer. "This one has to be by the books. She's an MP's daughter, and we're getting pressure from the higher-ups to close this fast and clean. I don't need to remind you that both of our positions—"

Sherlock didn't allow the policeman finish, "Then the MP will be happy to know that she is, in fact, not his daughter. You should inform him, no wait, her post-haste. Well...not the daughter she thinks."

"What?"

"Twins, Lestrade! Long, lost identical twins!" And Sherlock was gone.

"Dear Lord, he really is back." Donovan glanced heavenwards in a silent prayer.

"Dammit, Sherlock." Lestrade cursed and called down the hallway where officers were tripping over themselves to get out of Sherlock's rampaging path. "Get back here!"

"I better follow him. I'll text you the rest of his deductions, yeah?" John scrambled to his feet.

"You're a lifesaver, John. Keep him out of trouble."

John saluted before taking off after Sherlock. If there was one thing he was going to finally beat out of Sherlock, it was going to be the man's infuriating habit of leaving him behind at crime scenes. But for today? It just felt so damn familiar that John couldn't bring himself to mind too much.

Lestrade was absolutely right: It was damn good to be back again.

-x-x-x-

Out of the blue one afternoon, Sherlock tore his bow away from the violin strings, issued the most discordant screech from the instrument, and turned to John. "Why aren't you writing in your blog?"

John, who had been toiling over forms for their latest police case (and Sherlock, the great git, refused to do his own share), needed a long moment before finally switching tracks. "What?"

"The blog, John! That sensationalist tripe you used to spend hours pecking out!" Sherlock sounded upset. "We've had cases for a while now, interesting cases now that the Met has finally pulled its act together. But you haven't written up a single one, not even that one with the twins and the counterfeiting ring."

John took another moment to mull over his reply. "I guess it slipped my mind. I hadn't made a habit of it in a long time. Recent events notwithstanding. Why do you care? I thought you hated my blog."

He admitted he missed it. The blog had always been a bit of an ego boost and the occasionally useful tool to get Sherlock to shut his gob.

His flatmate had clammed up, violin bow bouncing agitatedly in the air while the instrument itself was still tucked stiffly under his chin. "It served its purpose well enough, even brought us interesting cases once in a while. Like the Hound."

"Yeah, perfect," John muttered under his breath. "Cuz I really want to be exposed to the hallucinogenic drug from hell again. I don't see how the blog's going to make any difference now. You're certainly famous enough after raising from the dead. And I know you've been drowning in requests from the state of your inbox."

"It's not about the fame or money," Sherlock looked like he wanted to pull his hair in frustration, but was prevented by the instrument still in hand. "Although I would be much obliged if you finally gave up on that absurd notion of needing a day job. You were so inexplicably proud of your blog. You always looked like you enjoyed writing it. And the blog was an adequate supplement to my case notes, particularly on the more human elements I am less...inclined to pay attention to."

The realization dawned on him slowly, "You miss it. You miss reading my blog."

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock's snarl was offset by the light pink suddenly dusting his cheeks.

John's mouth went dry. The blushing-it was an unexpectedly attractive look on his flatmate. He forced his attention back to his laptop screen, not trusting what he might do or say if he was caught staring. He needed to go out, date, get laid, something. Because Operation Get Over Brilliant Flatmate wasn't going as well as he had hoped.

Sherlock turned away with a huff and began pacing and scratching irritably at his instrument again. As soon as John was finished with the paperwork and emailing Lestrade, he pulled up his web browser and started drafting a blog entry. Sherlock must have caught on eventually. Because after Sherlock's latest circuit around the sitting room, the cacophony gave way to actual music. Mendelssohn, John recognized with a flash of pride.

They passed the rest of the afternoon like that—content and companionable.

-x-x-x-

John was jolted out of his reading by the pounding on the front door. He folded down the page corner before getting to his feet. The knocking, still frenzied, continued downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a quick glance at 221A. There was no light seeping out from under the door. Mrs. Hudson wasn't back yet. She was probably still at Mrs. Turner's next door for bridge night.

He wrenched open the door to find Mary, barely conscious and cradled in the arms of a large black man. It took him several moments with the dim lighting before he recognized the man as a hunter he'd previously met: Philip Beauchamp.

"John, you have to help her. She won't stop bleeding."

His eyes were drawn to where someone's jacket was pressed against Mary's side in an attempt to stop the bleeding. The world snapped into clarity and John felt his old trauma training slot in. "Get her upstairs on the sofa right now," he barked and clambered back up the stairs. He went up to his room to grab his medical kit and a spare sheet from the linen closet. He managed to get the cloth laid down on top of the sofa before Phil set her down.

"Keep the pressure on her wound," John ordered before taking a hold of her wrists, "Her pulse is thready at best. How long has she been bleeding?"

"Um, about the ten minutes or so that it took me to get her over here from Regent Park."

With his other hand, John cradled her cheek gently and turned her face towards him. "Mary, can you hear me?" She gave a whimper, but her eyes remained closed. Not an encouraging sign.

John got back to his feet, made a quick trip to the kitchen in order to wash his hands before slipping on a pair of surgical gloves from his kit. He looked to Phil. "What the hell happened?"

Phil bit down on his lower lip, obviously upset over whatever had happened. "It's that werewolf everyone's been looking for. Mary figured it out based on some information she received from a cop friend. She called me on as backup and we went looking for it."

John fought the outrage suddenly rising in his throat. She had been so damn close by. She should have just called him in to help too. He was going to give her a stern lecture  _when_ she was better again. But he had other things to concentrate on at the moment.

Phil continued rambling in the meanwhile. "We had the werewolf cornered near Regent College and we split up. I shouldn't have left her alone. Oh god, I got there just in time to see it on top of her and I fired at it. Didn't kill it though, but I clipped one of its hind legs and managed to scare it off. I panicked—"

John's blood suddenly ran cold. He had never dealt with a werewolf himself. But much like vampires, these sorts of encounters carried their own special set of risks. "Phil, was she bitten?" He fixed his glare on the other hunter.

"I don't know! Shouldn't you check? That's why I brought her to you." Phil's face mirrored the same terror that John felt deep in his gut. They both knew exactly what infection entailed.

There was no fighting biology.

"Call 999, and tell them it's another one of those animal attacks. "John could see that Phil wanted to protest. Every hunter's instinct was to fly under the radar of the proper authorities. An ambulance was going to mean a police report. "If she's been bleeding for as long as you said, she may need a transfusion and neither you nor I are B negative. I won't risk her getting an infection because Lord knows this flat isn't the most sanitary place on earth. Now do as I said!"

Phil's hands came away bloody and he absently wiped them on the sheet before fumbling for his mobile. John peeled back the makeshift pressure bandage and was relieved to see that the bleeding had finally slowed. The werewolf's claws tore deep enough to reveal muscle, but thankfully not deep enough to puncture any vital organs. It was still a gruesome sight to see Mary peeled back and exposed. There were much more shallow cuts down the length of Mary's abdomen, as if the creature was toying with her. He ordered Phil to bring a bowl of water from the kitchen along with some clean tea towels.

The ambulance arrived just after John had cleaned the area with disinfectant. The paramedics strapped her onto a gurney, and John barked out information about her condition at them as they carted her down the stairs.

"Where are you taking her?"

"St. Mary's about a mile from here. Now please step back, sir," said one paramedic before the back door closed in John's face. The ambulance took off with a long, sharp wail.

"We can follow with Mary's car, she left me her keys." Phil offered tensely.

John shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket to palm the revolver he had taken off Mary earlier. He popped open the chambers to check the bullets inside: silver. "No, you go look after her. I'm going after the werewolf."

"I can come—"

"Please, Phil. I need you to make sure she's going to be okay. Will you stay with her for me?"

Phil nodded, expression full of determination again. They parted ways without needing to say more.

-x-x-x-

If not for the splotch of dark blood on the stoop, Sherlock would have surely smelt it upon stepping through the front door. The scent was still fresh—an hour or two tops. Flicks of blood dotted a path up the stairs to the second floor. Someone had tried to staunch the bleeding.

John.

He tore up the stairs as his mind came up with twenty-nine possible scenarios and then promptly discard fifteen of them. He threw open the door to the flat with such force that the knob must have left behind a dent in the wall (Mrs. Hudson was going to be furious when she finally noticed). There was a bloody sheet spread out over the sofa. Everything had been swept clear off the coffee table in a hurry and John's medical kit was slew across the surface. Several more tea towels soaked in red and a pair of nitrite gloves laid discarded on the floor.

"John!" Sherlock called. Then he heard the running water coming from the bathroom.

The door had been left ajar and John was standing over the sink, shirtless and mechanically rinsing his hands of blood. The shirt and cardigan he had been wearing from earlier in the day pooled around his feet. Sherlock was going to have to straighten them to consider the blood splatter properly. John was tense, holding his left shoulder slightly higher than his right (he was in pain). The blond man didn't look up (still hadn't noticed Sherlock after all the noise and commotion), staring blankly at the pink stains in the sink.

When Sherlock stepped forward, his heel clicked against the tiled floor. John jerked back, pulled the gun (not his usual Browning, a Smith and Wesson revolver) that had been tucked into his waistband, and aimed. Sherlock stilled as he watched his presence sluggishly register in John's mind. His flatmate's eyes widened (face pale, breathing labored, pupils dilated: adrenaline response) with surprise, then confusion. Now that John was facing him full on, Sherlock's eyes flickered quickly from the tattoo to the new four inch lacerations between the fourth and fifth rib to the pattern of livid bruises stamped across John's torso.

The evidence coalesced into two conclusions: 1) The blood in the living room wasn't John's—there was too much, almost two pints; and 2) John had been attacked.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" John sounded breathless when he spoke. "What's wrong?" He lowered the gun and rested it by the sink.

Something inside Sherlock's chest tightened and squirmed. Even now, injured and covered in blood (someone else's blood), John was still more concerned for Sherlock.

He stalked across the bathroom, pushing his friend to sit on the edge of the tub. He can better examine the evidence from this proximity. John struggled to push him away, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. He planted both arms on either side of John, caging him, and growled, "Stay still."

The four parallel lacerations were made by an animal's claw (the cuts weren't too deep, a swipe then, but John would still need a few stitches). Judging by the accompanying bruises, the animal had been large, almost the size of a full grown human (they must have grappled for a bit).

"What happened?" He looked up into John's eyes, looking for any signs of deception. His words tight and controlled (why hadn't John called him?).

John sighed, breath catching with a renewed shudder of pain. "Remember those animal attacks on the news?"

A series of vicious animal attacks over the last three days. Four victims viciously mauled and missing their hearts and other organs. Sherlock had flagged the incidents for deletion (they weren't relevant to his current cases). He nodded slowly and stamped down the image of John in much the same condition as the other bodies.

"Let's just say that won't be a problem anymore." John smiled crookedly.

Sherlock wanted to reach out and cupped John's flushed cheek. Instead, his fingers lingered over the injuries, prodding and poking until John drew back with a hiss of pain. "We should clean and stitch up your wounds."

"My things are in the living room."

"Stay here, I'll get it."

In the living room, Sherlock finally shedded his coat and suit jacket. He rolled up his sleeves before grabbing what he needed off the table. When he returned to the bathroom, John had slid down the length of the tub so he could rest his back against the wall. Sherlock deposited his burden on the floor before falling swiftly to his knees at John's feet.

"Could have been a lot worse," the blond man concluded after his own clinical examination. He tried to reach for bottle of disinfectant, but Sherlock planted his hand on John's warm, naked torso and shook his head.

They remained quiet as Sherlock carefully cleaned the wounds. It wouldn't do for John to get an infection. Sherlock needed him.

"Whose blood is all over our furniture then?" Sherlock finally asked.

John's lips thinned into a grimace. "Mary's."

Sherlock swiftly ran through all the viable outcomes. John wasn't distraught over her, which meant she had been stabilized. Mary was also no longer in the flat—John wouldn't bear to leave her alone while she was injured. But he wouldn't have sent her home on her own without someone to watch her. "She's at the hospital then. You had someone take her."

But Sherlock didn't want to think about Mary Morstan right now. He concentrated on the warmth of John's skin where Sherlock's fingers gripped his side. On the hiss of air inhaled past clenched teeth when the pain flared up. Sherlock hated the pink-stained gauze, more visible evidence of John's suffering.

"Why didn't you call me?" Sherlock asked as he exchanged the gauze for needle and surgical thread.

"Everything just happened so fast. There wasn't enough time and Mary had lost a lot of blood."

Sherlock stitched up the lacerations quickly and effectively. John made no complaints, just the occasional grunt as he bore the sting of needle and thread knitting his flesh back together. When he was done, he sat back on his heels to check over his work. It would never be as neat as John's, but he had practiced enough for it to be adequate by any surgeon's standard. Before John came into his life, he had stitched up many of his own wounds like this. His gaze soon wandered away from the stitches to the tattoo on one shoulder and to the old scar on the other.

He wanted to leave his own claim (mark) on John's body. Carve his initials so that anyone who looked upon John Watson would know exactly to whom his life and loyalty belonged to. Mary couldn't have that, right? John could have stayed with Mary, could be by her side right this moment. But he wasn't, because he was where he should be—at Sherlock's side. And if only John had come with him to the Yard to review cold cases, he wouldn't be injured.

He would have to reconsider the notion of ever letting John out of his sight.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He redirected his attention to John's face, still lined with a discomforted grimace and his pupils blown wide (the adrenaline response still hadn't passed). John's skin appeared especially pale and almost sickly under the bathroom's harsh florescent light.

Sherlock's heart sped up suddenly. "Observing, John. It's what I do."

"I think I'd like to go to bed now." John, exhausted, dropped forward and pillowed his face against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock's body stiffened and locked up when he felt John's hair tickled his cheeks.

"Thank you." The softly spoken gratitude were little more than light puffs of air against his neck, but they felt like lightning dancing across Sherlock's skin. Up close, John radiated heat like a furnace and smelled like sweat mixed with exertion. It was unexpectedly inviting. Even after John pulled away and stumbled out of the bathroom, Sherlock's galloping heart refused to calm down.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock eyed everyone they passed in the hospital hallway critically. There was nothing interesting to deduce, and it was harder to read patients and staff alike when everyone had been stripped of their personal effects and stuffed into droll hospital wear. He was beginning to have second thoughts about tagging along with John to visit Mary. Not that he really cared about Mary beyond her ability to affect John emotionally. Then he lingered on the slight limp that John (still sore from last night, didn't sleep as well as he could have) had been walking with since last night and was reassured he made the right choice in following.

Mary Morstan was sharing the room with another patient, with the curtains drawn around her bed. John went behind the curtains first and quiet words were exchanged ("Is it done?" " _Don't worry, it's taken care of._ "). Then John waved through the cloth in a gesture for Sherlock to join them.

He could spot the heavy bandage under the flimsy hospital gown. It was wrapped around her entire abdomen and lower torso, binding her breasts a bit.

"Ms. Morstan," he greeted after a quick glare from John.

"Mr. Holmes," she replied, equally stiff.

It was awkward and quiet.

John sighed and pointed at the two of them. "Look, you're both my best friends. Could you not do this? Sherlock, be nice, she's in the hospital for fuck's sake. If you're going to be an arse, why did you even come? Mary, just let it go, I already have."

"We brought grapes." Sherlock announced and pointed to the plastic bag in John's grip.

"I brought grapes," John corrected.

"Really, John, how old are you? Seventy?" Mary teased with a smile showcasing her pearly white teeth. Somehow, she still managed to be pretty and perky despite her injuries and pallor. She was young, moderately successful, and financially independent. She would be termed "a catch" by most men. Everyone seemed to adore her. John adored her. 

John moved to sit down in the chair already pulled up to Mary's bed (she had an earlier visitor). "Shut it, you were the one complaining the last time we were in a hospital."

"Yeah, but we also hadn't eaten anything in like fourteen hours," she protested. "You know the food in Yorkshire doesn't agree with me."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a lorry. The upside is the school's giving me two weeks to recover."

"Bed rest, Mary, I mean it. I'll check in on you." John appeared to want to take her hand but thought better of it a moment later. "You should have called me last night as soon as you suspected something. I would have come to help."

After their eyes met, they held each other's gaze without flinching. Sherlock almost felt like he was intruding (which was patently ridiculous because Mary was the one intruding on his partnership with John). There was an entire conversation being had. Actually, an argument, Sherlock decided after contemplating the suddenly defiant set of her jaw. He didn't like not being privy to these things. Somehow, Mary and John were even harder to deduce when they were together than when they were apart.

Mary leaned back against the bed and fiddled with the strip of bandage wrapped around her left arm. "I had it under control. I'm not some porcelain doll, you don't need to treat me like one, John."

Sherlock's Blackberry was buzzing and he whipped it out. Excellent, a text from Lestrade about a potential case. He tapped out a reply before even thinking:  _John and I are on our way._

John and Mary were still talking quietly when he looked up again. His flatmate reached out to tenderly brush a strand of hair out of her face. John hadn't even realized that something had come up. Something furious and dark fluttered against Sherlock's ribcage (this was happening more and more often).

"It's Lestrade, he has something for us," he chose to glower at a spot on the wall instead. "If you want to stay here—"

John's face brightened at possibility of a new case (it had been a while, almost two weeks since their last case) and scrambled to his feet. Whatever was gripping Sherlock's chest uncoiled in response. But then he looked to Mary, obviously feeling conflicted about leaving her.

"Go," she nudged his arm. "Who knows what he'll get up to if you're not there."

"When are you being released?" John asked.

"Tomorrow."

"I can come pick you up."

"Don't worry about it," she glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. "Phil said he'd come by with my car tomorrow and take me home. Thank you for coming to see me, both of you."

John pressed his lips affectionately against her cheek. "I'll call you later." Then he turned to Sherlock, full of excitement, and said, "Ready to go?"

For the first time in months, Sherlock realized that Mary Morstan was never going to stand between him and John (so stupid, so slow!). Partly because she had no intention of doing so, but mostly because John had already made his choice. John chose him months ago by coming back to Baker Street.

"Get well soon." Sherlock meant it for once.

"Thanks."

He grabbed John by the elbow and steered him toward the door, who followed without even the slightest resistance.

-x-x-x-

The crime scene was near Knightsbridge. It was a locked room mystery—Sherlock's favorite kind. No forced entry. Victim (male; early thirties; white) shot execution style with arms tied around his back. Scene was methodically cleaned afterwards. At least a six. It should have been enough to mentally engage Sherlock for a good while.

But even while processing all the data and clues, a part of Sherlock's mind was still focused on John. He was acutely and constantly aware of where his friend was in relation to him. The additional data stream was irrelevant, and he couldn't turn it off.

He didn't want to turn it off?

Sherlock gestured for John to come over and give his opinion. John knelt down next to him and stared at the body intensely. Sherlock found his gaze drawn to the nape of his partner's neck, where his blond hair brushed against the inside of his shirt collar. His hair rustled and skin stretched taut over bones and muscles with each inhaled breath. Sherlock could smell John's aftershave from this distance.

He nodded absently as John gave his own deductions. Everything he said was mostly wrong, and Sherlock was sure to tell him that. John gave an impatient huff and waved a hand, gesturing for Sherlock to go on. Sherlock ran on automatic as he went through his list of deductions, and John took notes in that terrible doctor's scrawl of his.

And...all Sherlock could think about was how soft John's hair looked.

He must be coming down with something, because he couldn't concentrate over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. His body felt flushed and when he adjusted his wristwatch (John's present, gift from John, present given by John), an electric current coursed down his spine. Must be a cold or the flu, because the only other explanation was too preposterous to consider...

Oh...

"Sherlock?" John's brow was furrowed with sudden worry.

He must have trailed off because Lestrade was also staring at him openly and warily. Sherlock fixed all his remaining gaze and attention on John's thin lips.

Oh!

This could be a problem. He was going to need more data first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) SOCO (Scenes of Crime Officer) = British crime scene unit, including Anderson.  
> (2) Interesting note that I discovered while writing this chapter. Most major predators (including wolves, bears, and lynxes) in the UK has been extinct in centuries.


	7. March I (Three's a crowd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The string of increasingly violent deaths at King's College rightfully deserves Sherlock's full attention. Instead, John and Victor Trevor (or more precisely, the matter of them together) are becoming dangerously distracting.

The list of people that Sherlock had been attracted to was short, and the end results almost always disappointing.

The first had been the summer before Lower Sixth when a new family moved in next door. Melanie White, two years older, rebellious, and an IQ of 149. Who thought it was cool that he had been diagnosed with sociopathy and spent long hours ranting about the tedium of their upper class Kensington neighborhood. Over the years, Sherlock had deleted most of his memories of her (the way her hair smelt after they chainsmoked pack after pack, or the often chapped texture of her lips, or the fact he used to call her "tart" as a pet name of sorts [one of the first things he erased was her mockingly loving nickname for him—[entry not found]) until only the bare essentials from their brief time together remained.

One, how she introduced him to his first two vices: smoking and petty crime. Two, how to not hide the signs of drug abuse if you didn't actually want your family to discover your habit (though this was not knowledge he would have practical applications for until his mid-twenties). By the time he returned to school that fall, her family had carted her off to rehab and that was the last Sherlock ever saw of her.

Then there had been Victor Trevor during his second year at Cambridge (1). Victor, who was warm and friendly. Who was openly gay and had the objectively worst taste in men. Who was never offended or intimidated by Sherlock's deductions, but endlessly amused like it was some sort of party trick (still leaps and bounds above everyone else that treated Sherlock with derision).

Victor had been his first real friend, even if they were nothing alike and read different subjects. Victor would often get away to Sherlock's after yet another fight with his flatmate, who was also his on-again, off-again serially cheating boyfriend. Which was why things took such an awkward turn when Sherlock realized he had developed a sexual attraction to Victor during a visit to his friend's home over the summer break. It was a wayward comment toward the end of the visit that had tipped Victor off to Sherlock's feelings, hence leading to an uncomfortable conversation where Victor rebuked any possible advances that may come his way (oh, Victor liked Sherlock—just as a little brother).

Which would have all been fine, until Victor started sleeping with Sebastian (Seb) Wilkes at the start of the school semester. Victor and Seb's relationship was meant to be a secret (from everyone including Sherlock), because Seb wasn't ready to come out (still hadn't). But Sherlock had taken one look at the two of them carrying a stilted conversation about Hemingway and just knew. It was only Victor's pleading that kept Sherlock's mouth shut. Seb hated Sherlock, and Sherlock never pretended the feeling wasn't mutual. Seb was also a possessive, jealous bastard. Despite not willing to openly date Victor, he still resented all the time Victor spent with Sherlock.

There was also that disgusting one time that Seb drunkenly propositioned him (as Victor looked on helplessly).

Sherlock and Victor soon drifted apart. They were barely speaking by the time Victor graduated the next summer. Not that it mattered, because Sherlock (bored with Cambridge, bored with his coursework, bored with the people and their tedious drama, bored with life) had dropped out the month before.

The experience soured the concepts of romance and friendship alike.

It would be many years later before Irene Adler would waltz in nude as the day she was born, and she had been fascinating, brilliant, and thrilling—for a while. Much like Melanie, it was not her body, but her mind that first grabbed his attention. But she was not trustworthy and would never be (she liked her power plays too much, far too like Mycroft). She was the Woman, the one who almost beat him. Another reminder of the folly of sentiment.

And now, John... John, who was his best friend. Who was steady (unlike Melanie), sensible (unlike Victor), trustworthy (unlike Irene), and loyal (unlike any and all of the other three). Who made Sherlock's heart beat faster, who made his body flush with heat and longing, and who was vehemently straight.

Melanie, Victor, and Irene had all been necessary lessons. Sherlock refused to be a fool and add John Watson as his fourth.

-x-x-x-

Much like the month of March itself, the Apocalypse was in like a lion and out like a lamb. One morning early in March, John awoke to a world teetering on the brink of chaos. No less than ten simultaneously occurring earthquakes were reported worldwide: 7.6 in Portland, 8.1 in Boston, and more in Hong Kong, Tehran, Berlin, and Rome. Early reports estimated a six-figure death toll.

He just knew that this was it.

John wasn't sure if he should be glad or disappointed that they weren't working any cases. Glad because Sherlock moped around the flat and was constantly well within John's line of sight. Whatever excuse he could have tried to give to keep Sherlock in the flat would have been pathetically transparent. But it also meant that John had nothing to occupy himself with, except for watching the BBC News like a hawk.

For three days, he held his breath. He was alert (slept with his pistol loaded with a magazine of silver bullets under his pillow every night), a bit jumpy, and his behavior annoyed Sherlock. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the world to end in fire, brimstone, blood, or whatever else Heaven and Hell apparently had in store for humanity.

He wondered how he got to this selfish point. How did he ever get to this stage where the rest of the world could burn as long as he could keep Sherlock safe?

During several quiet moments of terror, John was tempted to do so many things. He wanted to sit Sherlock down and tell him everything. He wanted to grab Sherlock by his hair and kiss him until they were both going to expire from a lack of air. They were all things that would result in Sherlock pushing him away. Funny enough, the possibility of their world ending did not encourage John to do any of those rash things. He clamped down on his desires even harder, because there was no way he was going to die with Sherlock hating him.

But the world continued just as it always had for eons. People went to work and school, they lived their lives, and died while falling victim to age, foul play, and accidents. UN peacekeeping forces were being deployed to several African and Southeast Asian nations. There were riots in the American cities affected by the earthquakes. The call for emergency aid went out. The world was messed up, but it was still there.

On the fourth day, he braved leaving 221B to shop for groceries and to bring home some Chinese carryout. John made sure he wasn't gone for more than an hour.

As he was making coffee for Sherlock that night, his phone chimed for an incoming text message. He palmed the mobile absently while glancing over to where Sherlock was doing laps around the living room.

_I have been informed by reliable sources that the matter is settled._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

While it was true that Mycroft Holmes had access to resources well beyond John's mean, John didn't know them. He didn't necessarily trust them either.

Rumors about the halting of the Apocalypse were a lot quicker to spread than the ones about its beginnings. They originated from across the pond—assurances that all had been righted by two brothers named Winchester. The actual details were less clear. By the end of the week, it was looking more and more likely that they were in the clear. There was no particular escalation by demons (things were actually eerily quiet on the Hell front) or dire psychic warnings. And most telling of all, no more devastating natural disasters or Biblical omens.

It wasn't appropriate, but John celebrated by accompanying Sherlock to a thankfully mundane murder-suicide and later donating 100 quid to Doctors Without Borders' emergency fund.

So the Apocalypse ended with a whimper—at least it did for John.

-x-x-x-

The possible triple homicide turned out to be far more perplexing than Sherlock originally anticipated. All three victims had been killed within a span of a week. And he had received news of a fourth death this morning. A suicide this time.

How often do people in that tight a social circle die so quickly in succession in such a short time frame?

Unlikely. Twice may be a coincidence, but a third and a fourth made a pattern. And Lestrade was convinced there wasn't a case at all! Idiot!

Photos of the four victims were taped up against the wall. Various colored strings connected three of the victims to shared hobbies, clubs, and social circles. Sherlock had still yet to get his hands on their individual class schedules. The fact that all of the first three victims had been friends since childhood made it difficult to sift through the relevant data. There was just too much overlap over years and years of mutual acquaintance.

Sherlock growled and ruffled his hair in frustration. He should have made more headway by now. He would have at least caught onto the serial killings earlier if he hadn't been so distracted by John. Only when John wasn't near him was Sherlock able to compartmentalize his recent thoughts about his friend and stow them away. As a result, he hadn't slept in two days to take advantage of those hours when John himself slumbered.

He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was seven-thirty. John would be coming downstairs any moment now.

Against his will, Sherlock's thoughts turned to John once more. He had spent the last two weeks categorizing and observing his own reactions to his flatmate. The evidence had confirmed the absurd conclusion he touched upon at the Knightsbridge crime scene many times over. Some of his more irrational opinions about Mary Morstan made sense now.

Jealousy. So stupid, so pointless.

Sherlock has never been one for self-deception. A waste of time and energy that. He knew what the signs were all pointing to: he was romantically and/or sexually attracted to John Watson. True as that may be, it didn't make the fact any less inconvenient.

He could waste time analyzing the when, why, and how (and he already had spent many valuable hours contemplating all those). It still left him in the same situation. He could confess or repress. The former wasn't an option. Did he really need to list all the reasons why that was patently the worst idea ever? Sherlock's two longest lasting relationships had been with cocaine (though periodically cheating with heroin on the side) and now the Work. People, the living sort, were not really his area.

So repression it was.

At least it was something he was not unfamiliar with. It would go away in time... (It had with Victor after all. This time would be no different. It had to be.)

John's footfall coming down the stairs brought him back to reality. He was dressed for the day (hair still attractively mussed from sleep—no, focus on something else; King's College, London had over 18000 students, over 12000 undergraduates and over 6000 postgraduate).

"Morning, Sherlock," John called as he entered the sitting room. "Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock ignored the sudden tightness in his chest and made a noncommittal noise in response.

Doing anything else would just drive John away. Given that alternative, unrequited seemed a small price to pay.

"Of course, you didn't." John moved to stand by his side, smelling of his shower gel and aftershave. "Why are you so convinced that their deaths are murder?"

It took Sherlock a minute to tear his attention away from the small cut where John had nicked himself shaving (blood still welling in the abrasion and Sherlock wanted to bend over and taste it). A small smile crept across his lips. Trust John to ask the right questions at least. Lestrade had asked why he even thought the deaths were connected. John accepted the initial supposition and went onto asking how he knew they were murdered.

"Two supposed accidents and one by natural causes, but the circumstances surrounding them all are suspect," Sherlock pointed to the first photo on the left. "Malcolm Reynolds, age 20, the one ruled as a natural death by the ME. Diagnosed with a chronic asthma condition since childhood. His medical records identifies his triggers, none of which were present in his room. So there is the question of what triggered the fatal attack."

"Even so, these things are never 100% guaranteed." John would know; he was a good doctor.

"All signs indicate that he was absolutely meticulous when it came to the management of his symptoms. He would have never let his inhaler out of sight. He had more than enough time to get to it across the room. But he didn't, he sat in his chair for minutes as his symptoms grew worse and worse. He could have called for help, but he didn't. Why?"

He whipped his finger toward the second photo. "Then two days later, Cynthia Williams, 21, took an unfortunate tumble down a long flight of stairs and broke her neck. She had a date that night, dressed up, brand new outfit and shoes with all the intention of showing up. She was headed in the direction of said date by all accounts, when she suddenly veered off in the complete opposite direction. Something happened. From the wear in her heels, it was obvious she was running and not just dashing about because she was late. No, she was running away from someone."

"And finally, Kevin Thomas, they didn't even put any effort into that one. Ran halfway across campus to slip in the bathroom, hit his head, and drown in a tub of water while fully dressed? Ludicrous, absurd! Who in their right mind would think that was an accident too?"

"Okay, I'll give you that they're all a bit odd. But did anybody see anything? What about CCTV footage? I imagine the college has a whole network of them installed on campus."

"Not a bad idea. Which is why I already checked. All the footage from the nights of the deaths is of no use. There was some sort of interference, which created artifacts in the video feeds. Interestingly, the malfunctions occurred only in the cameras along the routes that the victims took."

John straightened suddenly. "What kind of interference?"

"Grainy images, static, glares... What is it, John?"

His flatmate wore a pensive expression as his eyes were fixed on what he liked to call the "crime wall." Did he realize something? Was he seeing something that Sherlock had missed?

"Hang on, weren't there just three last night?" John pointed at the last photo on the far right.

"Mmm, yes, another body was discovered on campus this morning."

"Christ! How'd you get a picture so quickly?"

"Facebook," Sherlock brushed past to take his coat of the hook. "Come on, John. We have a body to examine."

John sighed loudly while gazing longingly at their kitchen (he wants breakfast). Sherlock allowed himself a satisfied grin when he heard John traipsing after him without complaint.

-x-x-x-

They spent all morning examining the body at St. Bart's morgue. Afterwards, he dragged John over to the university and shammed their way into the victim's dorm with their Met credentials. John finally put his foot down when Sherlock tried to send him off to talk to the administration office.

"You may be able to live on brainwork and caffeine alone. The rest of us human beings need a bit more than that." John had snapped.

Which was how they ended up at a restaurant around the block after the noon lunch rush. Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the tabletop.

"Did you get anything useful from the latest victim?" John asked without looking up from the menu.

"No, her death is entirely incidental, unconnected with the others. For once, the Met was right, it was suicide. She has been depressed and wasn't seeking help. If we were to get a hold of her academic records, we'd find that her grades had been steadily slipping over the last two semesters."

"Exactly when did you figure that out?"

"I suspected as soon as I saw the body. The visit to her room confirmed it."

John sighed—a familiar exasperated sound. "Right, were you going to ever tell me at any point?"

"I just told you now, didn't I?"

The restaurant's lull filled the gap in their conversation. Sherlock was mentally going over their next best move when they were interrupted by a third-party.

"John, is that you?" A tall red-headed man that passed their table doubled back as he spoke.

Sherlock took in all the details in an instant (mid-thirties, professional academic, owned two small dogs, in London for work related reasons) before he looked at the man's face. It had been over fifteen years, but Victor Trevor looked almost exactly as he did in university.

The most surprising part was John's breathless "Victor!" uttered in greeting.

Victor had yet to even look in Sherlock's direction. He was completely focused on John.

"It's good to see you, John. How have you been?" Victor spoke softly, full of warmth and fondness.

John's grin was getting wider by the second, threatening to split his face in half. "Good. What are you doing in London?"

"I'm in town a few days for conference. I'm also giving a lecture over at the King's College tomorrow, you should come."

"Sounds interesting, you should send me the location."

Their initial awkwardness with one another had drained away. Instead, the two of them had become enveloped in their own little bubble of privacy. Sherlock had enough. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for disturbing—" Victor finally turned to greet him. "Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!"

"Victor."

"You didn't tell me you were that John Watson!" Victor cast an accusatory glance in John's direction.

"You two know each other?" John blinked owlishly (ugh, how can he be so slow on the uptake sometimes?).

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and waved a hand at his former classmate. "Victor and I were at Cambridge together."

"Of course, you were," muttered John while shaking his head. "Come join us for lunch then. I'm still deciding and Sherlock's refusing to eat like a petulant two-year-old."

Victor lowered himself into the chair immediately to John's right. "So he's still going on about how digestion slows his brain?"

"God, he was doing that in uni too? It's a wonder he survived for this long."

Sherlock didn't say anything as the two men began trading anecdotes back and forth. His mind was starting to wander to the restaurant's other customers when Victor suddenly angled his chair to face John and John immediately responded by leaning in. Sherlock had to blink purposefully and clear his head to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. It was the constant prolonged eye contact—almost caressing—paired with dilated pupils that was the most telling. John was sitting up with his back ramrod straight, head held high and licking his lips. There was also the way John's hand gestures became more emphatic and broad-sweeping, moving centimeters closer to Victor than otherwise.

John was displaying all his usual tells of attraction and flirting...with Victor. And Victor was, unsurprisingly, flirting right back with equal enthusiasm.

Why was John responding so positively to Victor's attention? It didn't sit well in Sherlock's stomach, making him all the more glad he wasn't eating. He needed more data to figure out his flatmate's oddly receptive behavior.

"Victor, how do you know John?" He interrupted their current conversation without remorse.

John was annoyed, but quickly turned his efforts to placing both his and Victor's order (why?) with the waitress that approached their table.

Victor went thoughtful and quiet for a moment before answering, "It was this past May. John was in Cambridge for a job and he came to consult with me on—"

A panicked look flashed across John's face. Victor caught the expression in time and shut his mouth with an audible click.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing, remember how I was doing some freelancing while traveling? I met with Victor to pick his brain for a piece I was working on." It was one of John's better lies, but a lie nevertheless.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Victor is a scholar of Old English literature."

"Early medieval actually, the technical term is 'Matter of Britain'."

"Irrelevant!"

John shrugged helplessly. "Like I said, research for an article."

John picked up his glass of water and drank from it as a ploy to buy more time. Victor was leaning ever closer to John, almost protectively. There was already a familiarity between the two that spoke of a previous consummated encounter. The realization caused Sherlock's brain to short circuit. Suddenly, he didn't really care about the exact details of how they met.

The words fell from Sherlock's lip before he could stop them, "You've slept together."

John's face turned beet red, and he made a deliberate move to swallow back the water and not spit it back into the glass. "Jesus, Sherlock! A little warning next time."

Victor, who had never been offended by Sherlock's deductions in college and who had less than stellar judgement when it came to choosing romantic partners (not anymore, because Victor and John—together), chuckled. His eyes twinkled with mirth.

And neither of them were denying the veracity of his deduction.

"You said you're not gay!" He focused all his attention back on John. He knew he sounded ridiculous, accusatory even, but he couldn't help himself.

"I'm not," protested his flatmate. His face turned even redder before muttering, "I'm bisexual."

Sherlock was sure his hard drive was crashing. How had he not known this earlier? How had he completely missed this? Sherlock had previously witnessed occasions where John repressed sexual attraction toward some men. But suppressed desires were just that: suppressed. For as long as Sherlock had known him, John had only attempted to date and pick-up women. The pieces of data were slotting into the appropriate bins and painted a clear picture: experienced bisexual with a preference toward women for long-term romantic relationships.

"I think you surprised him, John." Victor smirked ever so slightly.

John wore an incredulous expression on his face. "You really didn't know? But you know everything."

"I'm not a mind reader," Sherlock snapped. His phone rang with Lestrade's name glowing on the screen. He snatched the device off the tabletop and stalked away. He moved just far enough to keep the table in his line of sight, but they couldn't see him in return. When the two heads, one blond and one red, leaned in close together in a hushed conversation, Sherlock couldn't concentrate on a single word that Lestrade had to say.

The current situation was infinitely more unbearable than any one involving Mary Morstan.

-x-x-x-

They both tracked Sherlock's progress across the restaurant until the detective vanished around a wall. Without Sherlock to focus on, they turned their attention back to each other. For John, there was no denying the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. It only stood to reason that Victor wouldn't be that different in the year since they last saw each other.

It was in May of last year when Mary turned him toward the trail of a powerful artifact that was killing almost everyone that crossed its path. He had just fled London in the wake of the second anniversary of Sherlock's "death." And Doctor Victor Trevor was the closest expert that might shed any light on the subject.

Victor Trevor was so ridiculously John's type when it came to men. He was both devastatingly and boyishly handsome. Not to mention smart, enthusiastic, and so full of life. In retrospect, John should have felt more guilty about falling into bed with Victor. But he had been so eager to not think about Sherlock. No, John didn't regret their brief dalliance. What he did regret was getting Victor involved in the case (as it turned out, it was not a powered artifact, but a violent spirit haunting through an object recently acquired by another professor) and almost getting him killed. Victor had been so understanding and that was when John knew that Victor deserved so much more than he could offer.

"He doesn't know then?" Victor asked.

John shook his head.

"I'm sorry. I just assumed he knew. You know, about the ghosts and all those other spooky things." Victor wiggled his hands.

John laughed nervously. "It's hard to explain without seeing it first. I don't fancy being sectioned."

"True," then after a long moment, Victor continued, "I never did thank you for saving my life."

"You wouldn't have been in danger if I hadn't come to you for help first."

Victor looked surreptitiously around the restaurant before speaking again, "Are you still in pest control then?"

"No, kinda hard to do that and still keep up with Sherlock. And Sherlock's the priority for me right now."

"He always was a handful."

"I'm really glad to have run into you, John. Maybe you could give me some advice. I know you said there were others that did what you did, but I didn't know how to get in contact with them. I don't suppose an ad in the classifieds would have worked?"

"Is something wrong?"

"I have a colleague who's having trouble with their home. From what he's told me, I thought it might be within your area of expertise."

"Like what?"

"The usual. Electrical problems, objects being moved, or disappearing and reappearing. Last week, his baby ended downstairs after he was already put to bed in the crib."

John's shoulders tensed before he reached for a paper napkin and started scribbling on it. "That does sound bad, dangerous if it's started targeting the child of the family. Here, have your colleague call Mary Morstan at this number and explain his situation. She'll either go look into it herself or refer him to someone who can help. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, Victor."

On second thought, he added his own number under Mary's. "And this is my new personal number if you need to reach me."

It was at that moment where their fingers brushed as John passed the napkin to Victor that Sherlock popped up again. John sat back, putting some distance between them, while Victor scrambled to hide the napkin from sight. Even from a distance, Sherlock would no doubt make out both his and Mary's digits printed on it.

Sherlock remained completely silent for the rest of the meal. John wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign.

-x-x-x-

It was amazing how quickly Sherlock had both John and himself run ragged over this latest case. John could tell the detective was becoming increasingly frustrated with the whole affair, and thus more short-tempered than usual. Half the time, he couldn't even tell if Sherlock even wanted him around. He was more than ready to run and breathe a sigh of relief when Sherlock sent him off to question the victims' friends and neighbors again the next afternoon.

His new credentials from New Scotland Yard opened doors he used to have to fight to get through. It was a bit alarming actually. He wasn't supposed to be using them outside of invited crime scenes (at the very least, John was misidentifying his role with the Metropolitan Police Force). But as soon as he flashed his ID at people nowadays, they became a lot more willing (even if only begrudgingly) to talk and reveal incriminating details about other people.

His time on the Waterloo campus wasn't completely wasted though. He was able to uncover a number of interesting tidbits. Though most of it wasn't going to be much use to Sherlock. After Malcolm and Cynthia's death early in the week, Kevin was reportedly acting erratic. Not attending classes was par for the course when two of your closest friends just died. But then there was all the other paranoid behavior (convinced there was someone following him, jumping at the slightest noise and tremor)... The final pieces finally came together when he asked if the students had noticed anything strange.

He first suspected when Sherlock mentioned the unusable CCTV footage. But now that he had first-hand accounts of the strange electrical malfunctions in the residence halls where the accidents happened. He would have to come back with an EMF scanner later, but it was obvious that a spirit of some sort was involved.

John juggled his phone back and forth between his hands. How should he report his findings back to Sherlock? With any luck, Sherlock would send him off on his own to do more investigation, thus giving me hopefully enough time to dig up information on the responsible spirit. John startled when the mobile chirped and he almost dropped it.

 _My talk starts in_ _a bit_ _._ _Still interested in coming by?_  
 _Victor_

The apartment building he stood in front of was just across the river from the lecture hall on the Strand campus. He could easily pop over to see Victor. First, he tried to ring Sherlock, but it was no surprise when his flatmate didn't pick up. He texted what he could to Sherlock and went to attend Victor's talk.

It had already started by the time John arrived. He moved as quietly as he could and took a seat near the back. For a brief second, Victor's eyes met John's across the hall as he sat down. Victor lectured the next hour about the structure of true love narratives in medieval literature. It was mildly entertaining, owed mostly to Victor's charisma. Throughout the talk, John couldn't help glancing at his mobile in case Sherlock answered (he didn't).

The end of the talk was met with a round of polite applause. A number of people went up to talk to Victor afterwards, so John passed the time by texting Sherlock again for instructions. The lack of response probably meant his flatmate was wandering his "mind palace" again. It could be many more hours before he re-emerged. He probably didn't even notice that John wasn't there. John tried to not let that bother him too much. Sherlock would contact him as soon as he needed something. Better that John spend some time outside the flat and not...pine...

"You came."

John smiled at Victor before standing, "I was in the area. It was...interesting."

Victor laughed (god, wasn't that an attractive sound?). "Not your thing then. That's okay. Listening to great adventure stories probably isn't as thrilling when you could be living them instead. I read your blog last night. If our first meeting hadn't involved a murderous ghost, I might have had more trouble believing that you were wrapped up in Semtex at one point."

"Oh, the blog," John groaned. "Given your background, my writing must read like absolute horse shite. Do me a favor and don't mention it again."

"Do you have any plans this evening? We can get some dinner and catch up."

John hesitated. He shouldn't have. Yes, he knew Victor was flirting with him. No, he didn't mind at all. The entire situation felt too much like he was cheating, which was silly. Because who would he be cheating on? On Sherlock, who wasn't interested in him or anyone?

"Yeah, let's." He shoved all those feelings to the side. It was nice to be wanted. He could enjoy that while it lasted.

They found a table at a nearby Italian restaurant. When they walked in, John found himself making comparisons with Angelo's (which he and Sherlock had gone to last week, and Angelo had delighted in their presence as usual). He mentally scolded himself as the waiter lit the candle on their table and left two menus behind. John almost protested when Victor ordered a bottle of wine, but his mobile had remained stubbornly silent the entire walk over.

It had been a while since John had dinner conversation that didn't center around corpses or other criminal matters. Over appetizers, Victor talked more about his recent work and told stories about his two terriers back home. John struggled to find a topic that didn't revolve around Sherlock, and sadly found that other than hunting, there wasn't one. So he was content to mostly listen to Victor talk and add his own comments when appropriate.

Halfway through their entrees, Victor looked up and asked, "I'm not intruding on anything, am I?" It was the first time all evening that he appeared as anything less than confident.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, you and Sherlock. I don't want to get in between you two. You do live and work together after all."

"Sherlock and I aren't a couple. We're just friends, flatmates," John swallowed around the lump suddenly forming in his throat. "Besides, I don't think I've ever even seen him interested in another human being that was still breathing." He decidedly did not think of Irene Adler at that moment. "You knew him back then, was he ever with anyone?"

"No, Sherlock always treated relationships like they were something beneath him. But there was one person he was interested in."

John couldn't help himself. It wasn't any of his business, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to find out what sort of person could catch Sherlock Holmes' attention. "Who?"

Victor hesitated, almost guilty looking, before he answered. "Me."

An awful disquiet descended over their little table as John wrestled with with the onslaught of emotions (confusion, jealousy, guilt, but mostly jealousy? It was so easy to imagine Victor and Sherlock together...). "You two were..."

Victor shook his head furiously. "No, he just told me once. But I wasn't into him, not like that. Sherlock was a friend, and I honestly had no feelings for him beyond the platonic. I suppose he's rather pretty, but Sherlock's not my type," he slid a hand across the table and grasped John's wrist lightly. "Not like you, John."

He stared down at the fingers cradling his wrist. He knew that Victor had meant for the action to be comforting—reassuring. But all John can think about is how wrong they looked against his skin (how he was imagining another set—clever violinist's fingers). That line of thought wasn't going to do him any good though. Not to mention, it was utterly disrespectful to Victor, whom he was more or less on a date with.

John forced a smile. "Good, because it would have been a bit weird to be going out with Sherlock's ex."

Victor bought that and withdrew his hand a moment later. When their legs bumped under the table and Victor's foot settled against John's ankle, rubbing gently. He didn't refuse the other man's advance. There was no future in pining after Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock didn't want John (no, not if people like Victor Trevor and Irene Adler were his type). John couldn't have Sherlock, but he could have Victor.

Then his phone chirped and he reached for it without even thinking about it. It was a text from Sherlock, an address followed by the message:  _Come at once._

-x-x-x-

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the entrance to the Maughan Library. He was drawing stares from some of the students entering and leaving the building, and he glared at them all in return. At one point, a school security guard tried to ask him to leave, but the idiot left him alone as soon as Sherlock flashed a stolen warrant card.

He checked his watch. It had been almost fifteen minutes since he texted John. John should have been here by now if he was in the area as he claimed.

"Sherlock!"

Finally.

His displeasure only grew when he recognized the figure jogging behind John. By the time John came to a stop in front of Sherlock, his cheeks were flushed from exercise and the night chill. No, he amended after spotting the wine stain on John's shirt, alcohol as well. His gaze slid over to Victor, standing so close to John that he might as well just press himself against the man. A shared bottle of wine (three glasses for Victor and two for John), dinner (Italian: calamari appetizer, mushroom risotto for John, and veal for Victor) that they never finished, John had left as soon as he got the text but was slowed by Victor following behind.

A date... Which Sherlock was all too happy to interrupt, but there was no way he was going to allow it to continue now.

"What is he doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

John must not have liked Sherlock's tone, because he immediately went on the defensive. "Victor," he hissed, "Was kind enough to show me the way here."

"Why?"

"Because we all don't have a ruddy GPS in our heads like you do."

"That's what your phone is for."

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?"

At least John was quick to turn his mind back to the case at hand.

"Our victims were all part of a study group that meets here every Thursday night, tonight incidentally. This will be the best opportunity to gather data from the group of them." Sherlock was already climbing the steps as he spoke.

Victor chimed in. It wasn't welcomed at all. "Sherlock, you can't go in there just to question a group of students about their friends' deaths. They're traumatized enough as it is."

He whirled around to face the other two men still standing at the bottom of the stairs. "I would think that a little discomfort would be worth it to apprehend a murderer. And if I'm right, which I will be, that the killer is targeting this particular group, I shan't wait for them to strike again. You can do as you please, but I'm going to interrogate them for their own good."

Sherlock was pleased when John followed him in the library, but decidedly less so when Victor did the same. He pushed all other thoughts aside, because the case was what was important at the moment. There was group seating on the ground, first, and second floors. John and Victor went to check the upper floors, but Sherlock found the study group in one of the group study rooms on the ground floor. He decided not to text John, who would find his way back soon enough.

The study group was down to five members (three reading humanities subjects, one reading computer science, and one postgraduate reading law currently dating the computer science one) now. One of them was out looking for a book among the stacks. Sherlock wasn't going to wait for the last one before beginning his questioning.

"Why should we answer any of your questions?" The law postgraduate demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before flashing Lestrade's stolen warrant card again. "I'm with Scotland Yard and I'm looking into the deaths of your friends. It would be in your best interest to answer my questions honestly if none of you wish to be the next victim."

"Oh god, are you saying some psycho's after us?"

"Shouldn't we be getting police protection then?"

Almost all of them were panicking now. All except the one reading computer science, who had gone all quiet and averted his gaze down to his lap. Sherlock maneuvered around the table until he was hovering over the student. "You look like you have something to say," Sherlock caught sight of the boy's name printed on a math worksheet. "Simon."

Simon (20-21, gay, right-handed, and currently very, very worried) bit the inside of his cheeks, before admitting, "I think someone has been following me for the past few days. I never see them, it's just this feeling that I get. I'm not the only one, Zoe's felt the same too."

Sherlock looked over each of the other students before concluding, "Zoe's not here right now."

"Should we go find her? If she's a target—"

A distant scream shattered the peace in the building. It came from one of the floors above. Then there was a second and a third tortured scream, all in the same high female voice. Sherlock took off running.

-x-x-x-

It was late enough that the library was virtually deserted on the second and third floor. Had it been closer to exam times, John was sure it would be flooded with more students. He and Victor only passed a few students browsing the stacks as they searched for the group study rooms. The quiet, once paired with the building's neo-Gothic architecture still featured prominently in its interior, was oppressive and heavy like a solid weight.

John had just stepped out of the stairwell when he noticed the flickering lights.

"Victor, stay close to me," he said tightly.

"What is it?"

The lights overhead stuttered again, plunging the shelves around them into total darkness for several heart-stopping seconds. Victor was tense and pressed against John's back. John really wished he had something on hand—even his Browning, which would have very little effect on ghosts.

He started at the patter of bare feet slapping against the floor. The sound seemed to be coming from all possible directions—as if they were surrounded.

"John, do you see that?"

He turned in the direction of Victor's gaze just in time to see the end of a muddy skirt disappear around a shelf. The lights were still flickering, but slightly further down the hall. It was moving away from them. Or...moving toward its target. He followed against his better judgment. He should go in search of something iron to use for defense, but he couldn't rid himself of the feeling that something horrible was about to happen (the hunter's sixth sense).

He should have told Victor to leave right away.

None of that mattered once the first scream pierced the air. It was short and pained. The next two were more drawn out and tortured. He and Victor soon found her on the ground near the vacant librarian's desk. She was the same age as the other victims (too young to die now). Victor made a bit of a gagging noise as John pulled her hands away to examine the pair of scissors impaled in her abdomen. Blood was soaking into the carpet and had already drenched the front of her blouse in red. She was bleeding out fast, far too fast for there to be just one wound.

She was barely breathing and barely responsive. "Come on, stay with me."

"Victor, call 999 now!"

Behind him, Victor cursed as he fumbled with his phone. "I can't. It's not turning on."

The lights dimmed in response. A chill brushed against the back of his neck, causing all the hairs to stand on end. It was still here.

"Try the landline on the desk." John scanned their surroundings for any sign of the ghost.

"No good, it's dead too."

Then a third voice, a child's voice, piqued. "Don't get in our way."

Victor yelped and fell back against John. John tried to keep pressure on all the wounds that he could (it was no use, she was not going to make it without a miracle) as he twisted to try and catch sight of the spirit.

"John!" It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" He then mentally berated himself. He shouldn't be calling more people over to fall prey to an angry spirit. But the lights were now steady in their emittance and Victor made a small victorious noise when his call finally connected through. John concentrated on keeping the poor girl alive (he had failed her, she was going to die no matter what).

"What's your name?" He asked.

A cough and a gurgle.

Sherlock dropped to his knees next the dying girl. "Zoe, is that your name?"

The slightest movement that could be interpreted as a nod. John could already see the life starting to leave her eyes.

Sherlock must have seen the same because his question grew more desperate. "What happened? Who did this?"

Both he and Sherlock leaned in close, until their heads were almost smashed against each other to hear her final words.

"It...our fault. She's...come back...for us."

Then she stilled and was no more.


	8. March II (Look at us both)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two paths of investigation into the same case should converge in the end. John dreads when they do. Except they don't, because it's so easy to lose sight of the human element when you're focused on the supernatural.

"I want this case, Detective Inspector." Sherlock declared as soon as Lestrade came onto the scene.

"Sherlock, you know that's not up to me. They only called me in because you're here." Lestrade scrubbed his face tiredly. "I must have missed the memo where I was unofficially declared your handler."

"I. Want. This. Case." He stepped closer, trying to use his height to impose his will. He wrinkled his nose when he caught scent of Lestrade's cologne. Didn't he have any sense of moderation? It smelled like he had bathed in it. The DI's shirt was also neatly ironed, not creased as it often was after hours on-duty. "You were on a date."

Why was everyone on a bloody date tonight?

"Go on, tell me how you figure that. Was it the way my cuffs are folded? Or the mud on my shoes that's only found in one part of London?"

Yes, definitely tetchy about his date being cut short. Lestrade didn't often try to mock him outright like so.

"Actually, it's the lipstick stain on your cheek from when your date presumably gave you a goodbye kiss. Surprisingly understanding of her, by the way. You may even be able to keep her for more than a few weeks if you've impressed upon her the irregularity of your work schedule."

Lestrade wiped his sleeve across his cheek, smearing the pink stain further.

"Which probably shouldn't be a problem when she's also constantly at the beck and call of a mad consulting detective." Lestrade's smug tone gave Sherlock pause.

"Wait, Molly Hooper?" He pulled a face.

"Ha! Couldn't deduce that from scratch, could ya?" The older man smirked.

Sherlock felt his scowl deepen. Nothing about this evening was turning out the way he hoped. He had another dead body, but squat to show for it. After Zoe expired, he had left John with the body while he combed the surrounding scene for clues. Nothing. Other than a smudge of dirt that had smeared against the surface of a nearby bookshelf, there weren't even footprints other than the ones left by John, Victor, the victim, and himself. Everything else was hours old-trace evidence left by other patrons of the library hours and days before.

It was as if the killer had appeared and then vanished back into thin air.

"Who's that?" Lestrade suddenly asked as he jerked his head in Victor's direction. "A suspect?"

"John's ex-boyfriend." He spat, unable to stomach the way the two men had their backs turned to everyone else and their heads bent together in an intimate conversation.

Lestrade did a double take. "What?"

It only then occurred to Sherlock then that John might not be so happy about being outed to their co-workers without being consulted. Well, it was John's own fault, Sherlock decided. John shouldn't have brought his date to a crime scene of all places. Besides, half the Met was still convinced that Sherlock and John were a homosexual couple.

The DI's expression went from shocked to concerned as he turned to Sherlock. "Uh, mate, you okay?"

"Of course, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, his eyes still shifting back and forth between Sherlock and his flatmate. "Look, if you ever want anyone to talk to, I'm available."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and growled. "The only thing I want to talk about would be this case. Now if we could please move on, I can't concentrate with all this blasted frivolity. John," he called to the man down to the hall. "I hope you're not going to make a habit of bringing all your dates on cases from now on."

The officers on scene stopped to stare at John, who had gone bright red. "I was led to believe you lot were professionals." He growled at the gawking policemen, who reluctantly turned away.

Sherlock caught whispers about "lovers' tiff" being tossed about.

Ignoring John's angry glare, Sherlock launched into revealing his findings. "As I've been trying to convince you idiots, these deaths in the last week are all connected. Except for that suicide, that was actually a suicide. The killer has been targeting this particular group of students for a reason. Up until this point, the deaths have all been innocuous seeming, trying to pass them off as accidents. But this one? To face down the victim and stand right in front of her to deliver nine stab wounds? That's personal. The killer is meticulous, hasn't left so much a hair at any of the scenes. There's not even blood splatter left in the wake of her escape."

"Her?" DI Gregson, the one initially sent by the Met when they called in the murder, asked.

"Isn't it obvious?!"

They collectively shook their heads and Sherlock took a moment to silently despair for humanity.

"Just look at the angle of the entry wound. All of the other stab wounds are angled downwards after the victim fell after the first strike. The one near her heart indicates that the scissors were thrust up into our victim. If the killer had been taller or even the same height, they would have plunged the blade down like so," he demonstrated the gesture on Lestrade. "As no one had reported seeing anyone suspicious downstairs or at any of the other scenes, the killer must be someone that looks like they belong on campus. They must look like another student. Zoe is a woman of average height so that would eliminate the majority of men her age or older. The killer is most likely another woman about five feet in height, give or take an inch."

Sherlock looked over to John, waiting for the inevitable exclamation of "amazing" or something similar. It never came. John was fidgeting and glowering at the floor. He was still angry and unsettled.

He swirled to face Gregson. His best chance now was to persuade Gregson to let him investigate as he was already there. "I've been working on this for the last three days. You need me if you want to close this case soon."

Lestrade and Gregson shared a significant look between them. Sherlock knew he had already won both DIs over.

"I need to talk to Simon, one of the students that was downstairs. He is most probably the next target. He may have more information to give and it may inform us of possible motives. They were detained for statements, correct?"

"Sherlock, you haven't given your statement yet." John pointed out.

Ugh, not his concern!

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned.

Why were they all so intent on getting in his way?

"I'll talk to him," John volunteered a moment later. "You'll probably want to fill them in on what you have already. You can join us as soon as you're done."

Victor was being led away from the scene to give his version of what he saw (or hadn't seen; Sherlock didn't hold high hopes of his old classmate having seen anything of use). John was in case mode, even if he was still irritated with Sherlock. John always rather he'd help if he could.

"Fine," he nodded before resuming glaring at the large bloodstain where the body had lain not long ago.

-x-x-x-

Armed with Victor's description of the ghost he saw, John was ready to go fishing. Zoe Agyeman's last words confirmed the exact type of spectral problem: revenge killings orchestrated by a wronged spirit. More than that, it sounded like Zoe had known which wrong her death was sought in recompense for. He could only hope this Simon could fill in the blanks.

The sooner he got this ghost laid to rest, the better. The longer Sherlock looked into the matter, the more likely he was to stumble into things John wasn't ready to explain.

On his way downstairs, he passed Victor, who have him a reassuring smile. John trusted the other man to know what things to share and not share with the police.

The library's entrance was blocked off by the crime scene tape, while police, night staff, and students milled about. Constable Pierce, who John had seen several more times since their meeting outside the Soho club in January, was the only familiar face in the crowd.

"I'm looking for one of the students, named Simon. Sherlock wants more to ask him a few questions."

She pointed him to one of the young people standing at the edge of a group. John thanked her before going over.

"Simon, may I have a few minutes of your time? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Before Simon could open his mouth to answer, another boy stepped between them and demanded, "Who are you?"

John relaxed the set of his shoulders and opened up his body stance. "My name is Dr. John Watson, and I work with the police. I was the one that found your friend, Zoe. I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's okay, Hyeonjun. Just give us a few minutes." Simon kissed the other boy's cheek before walking a further bit away from everyone else. He folded his across his chest and seemed to shrink in on himself as he asked, "How bad is it? The other officers wouldn't tell us."

John hesitated. It had not been a peaceful end. "You're better off not knowing."

"Doesn't matter, it'll be all over the news soon enough."

"My partner, Sherlock, the tall lanky one?" John waited for confirmation before continuing, "He said he talked to your earlier and you claimed you were being followed?"

"You're going to think I sound crazy. I can't shake this feeling that I'm being watched. There's never anyone there though. And it's not like they're watching me from a distance, it feels like whoever it is is right behind me, breathing down my neck. It doesn't matter if I'm in a crowd or completely alone." Simon's eyes darted about the room-like he was chasing phantoms. The only problem was those phantoms were real, but they were chasing him and not the other way around.

"And your friend, Zoe? Did she mention anything to you recently? Did she notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"She came to me two days ago after Cynthia had her accident. She also thought that she was being stalked. She pretty much had all the same feelings as me. We didn't know what to do or who we could go to. We had no proof or anything."

"Zoe said something near the end. She said 'our fault' and that 'she was coming for us.' Does that mean anything to you? It sounds like she might have known whoever killed her. Does she or you have any enemies? Maybe she got on someone's bad side recently?"

Simon cast his gaze down to the floor. His face had fallen even further and he was gnawing on his bottom lip. John recognized the look. Simon was unsure if he should say anything.

John continued to prod. "If there's anything you could tell us, it might help us to find your friend's killer sooner. You can help us bring her murderer to justice."

"Look, I love Zoe like a sister. We've been friends since we were kids. But she was always a bit superstitious. She was convinced that a ghost was haunting her. I mean, I already sound like a nutter talking about invisible people following me around."

"Why did she think it was a ghost?" John asked.

Simon got a little hysterical from there on. "What does it matter? There's no such things as ghosts, but there sure as hell is a psycho out there that wants me dead. Just because Zoe's still all hung up on what happened when we were kids doesn't make it true."

Before John could ask any further questions, Simon's boyfriend pushed John back. Hyeonjun Park growled and placed a protective arm around Simon. "That's enough! You're scaring him."

"I want to go home," Simon whimpered pathetically.

Sherlock swooped in suddenly-like a giant bat. Both boys squeaked in surprise and jumped back.

"You can hide all you like, but you won't be safe until the killer is caught. She's already eliminated four of your friends. You're most likely a target as well. So if you're hiding anything, you better tell us for your own good." The detective sneered. His pale eyes had taken on a feverish quality, the way it always did when he was like a bloodhound on a trail.

"Sherlock!" Any rapport John might have built with Simon was flying out the window.

Sherlock wouldn't relent. "What is it? Drugs? Cheating? Bullying? What could you and your friends have done to deserve this sort of retribution? What is it that you're hiding?!"

"I'm not hiding anything! We didn't do anything to deserve this!" Simon screamed before storming off.

It was amazing how fast Simon went from frightened to indignant. But John recognized defensiveness when he saw it. Sherlock's words had stirred memories of something-something John needed to uncover as soon as possible.

Sherlock grabbed Hyeonjun's sleeve before he could leave and follow Simon. The two of them glared defiantly at one another. After a long moment, Sherlock produced a business card and slid it into the boy's shirt pocket. "Your boyfriend is hiding something and it's going to get him killed. You care about him. It would be in both of your best interests to contact us if you find out anything."

Hyeonjun stomped away as soon as Sherlock let go. At least, he didn't immediately toss the card away.

"What now?" John leaned back against the wall, feeling drained.

"What we do best: we dig."

John couldn't help himself. He knew Sherlock hadn't even meant it as a joke. But the events of the day (the bloody emotional rollercoaster of being caught between Victor and Sherlock, the poor girl he couldn't save, the boy who would be next if he wasn't fast or good enough) was getting to John. So he buried his face in his hands to smother the inappropriate laughter (bitter and heart-wrenching).

"John?" And Sherlock (his voice, his scent, his warmth) surrounded him, holding him aloft as John's knees were weak and shaking. "You did the best that you could. She was never going to survive without immediate surgery. It's not your fault."

"I know that." John snapped. He wanted to both push away and lean into Sherlock at the same time.

"You should go back to the flat. You need rest. You had nightmares last night."

"No, I'm fine."

John needed to keep working. He wasn't going to be able to rest until he put this vengeful spirit to rest first.

-x-x-x-

They had followed Gregson back to the Yard and been given access to all the police reports from the other three deaths. Gregson had been adamant-John and Sherlock were not officially on the case, but he would take anything they said under advisement. If they wanted access to police resources, they needed to do so from the Yard while under the watchful eyes of other officers.

It was Sherlock who found the last missing piece of the puzzle.

John checked the time. Only four hours since the latest killing.

Sherlock had gone off to supposedly use the men's room, but returned with an entirely new file that John doubted any officer had pulled for them. Upon seeing this, Lestrade sighed very loudly and lectured Sherlock about official procedure. To which Sherlock had countered that Lestrade needed a better password for his computer then.

A search for a combination of the various victims' names in the police database turned up an accident report filed almost ten years ago. Malcolm Reynolds, Cynthia Williams, Kevin Thomas, Zoe Agyeman, and Simon Cain were all witnesses to an accident that ended the life of an older child from their neighborhood. The dead child in question was thirteen-year-old Samantha Moore, who drowned after falling into a small lake.

John stared at the photo of poor Samantha Moore. She had been a bit tall for her age, already five feet in height. She would have stuck out, may have been bullied. Her long skirt was wet and muddy from tripping over the shoreline. She hadn't spent a long time in the lake; the body was fished out of the water within an hour. She almost looked like she was asleep except for the blue tint of her lips.

She matched Victor's description perfectly.

While Sherlock and Lestrade had their backs turned, he snapped an image on his phone and forwarded it to Victor for confirmation.

"Are the police so incompetent to miss such an obvious connection?" Sherlock jabbed a finger at the file lying open on the conference table.

"We didn't even know the deaths were possibly connected until a few hours ago. We can't just investigate based on a hunch." Lestrade argued.

"I don't guess," Sherlock snarled. "I've done nothing except point out the inconsistencies in these so-called accident scenarios. If you had only listened to me and let me work the case, we may have gotten to Zoe Agyeman before the killer."

"Sherlock, there hasn't been any shred of physical evidence so far pointing to the killer. Not even after tonight. Anderson's combed the scene."

"She certainly didn't stab herself nine times with a pair of scissors. This is the best lead we have at the moment. We need to start looking at Samantha Moore's family for possible suspects."

John decided it was time to step in and defuse the situation. Not to mention, throw Sherlock off the scent until he had a chance to dig up this girl's grave first. "But this all happened ten years ago. Why now? If this is some sort of revenge, why now after all this time? Why not before? Are you sure you should be focusing on this angle to the exclusion of all other theories?"

"I haven't discarded other likely theories. Until we find more evidence to the contrary, this is the most likely one. Occam's razor and all that."

"Right," John stood and stretched. "I'm going to get some coffee. Do either of you want anything?"

Sherlock's response was automatic. "Black, two sugars, and use the machine on the fourth floor."

Lestrade shook his head.

The two other men had resumed their arguing even as John slipped out of the room. It was already past midnight and John felt bad about waking Mary since it was a school day. The line rang three times before she picked up.

"John? What's wrong?" She sounded groggy.

"I'm a bit offended that you think the only reason I'd call is when I have a problem."

"Well, last week you needed to sleep over after Sherlock's experiment went wrong."

John ducked into the staircase before continuing. "It's the case I'm working with Sherlock. I'm pretty sure there's a spirit involved. I may need some backup for this."

"I can take care of the bones if you need to stay with Sherlock."

"Actually, I'm afraid there might be another victim soon. I need you to keep an eye on him while I tie up the loose ends."

"It sounds like you already know where to find the bones."

"I have her name. It should be easy enough to find her death certificate and hopefully find out where she's buried. I'm at Scotland Yard as we speak."

"Already abusing those hard-won privileges, eh?"

"Anything for the job." He knew Mary well enough to know that she was wearing the same rueful smile as him.

He spent a few more minutes relaying the necessary information to her before ringing off.

He persuaded Constable Pierce to pull a copy of Samantha Moore's death certificate and autopsy report. Even after two months, she still regarded him and Sherlock with a bit of wide-eyed hero worship. By the time he got the drinks together, she already had all the files in hand.

He couldn't resist flirting with her-much to Sherlock's disapproval. She was almost 15 years younger than him and he was sure she had a boyfriend. But she blushed the most endearing shade of pink and flirted back with gusto. All a bit of harmless fun.

"Ta, luv," he said as he traded a cup of Darjeeling tea he had prepared for her in exchange for the files.

"You do know the way to a girl's heart, Doctor Watson." She replied cheekily and sauntered away.

"What would Victor say?" Sherlock snapped once she was gone.

John rolled his eyes and didn't rise to Sherlock's bait. He deposited his flatmate's coffee by his elbow and scanned the papers he'd just received instead. There was no mention of where she was buried. The autopsy report was also standard for a drowning incident (waters in the lungs, asphyxiation as cause of death, no defensive wounds). All in all, it didn't look like the sort of death that usually resulted in angry, violent spirits.

They spent the next few hours reviewing footage first from the library entrance for any sign of someone five feet in height. There's no one matching that description-just as John already knew they wouldn't find anyone. Sherlock was growing more frustrated and at around 4 AM demanded the CCTV video from the other incidents, expanding his search parameter to anyone that may have appeared more than once.

Lestrade left them around five in the morning to go home and get a change of clothing. John fell asleep at the conference table soon after. He was shaken awake hours later by Sherlock, with nothing but a nasty crick in his neck for his troubles. The first thing Sherlock had him do was call Samantha Moore's mother, Beth. The family had moved to Lancaster after the daughter's accident.

He borrowed Lestrade's office to make the call. The unexpected bout of privacy gave him the chance to ask some questions he wouldn't have been able to in Sherlock's presence. He managed to wheedle out an answer to his dilemma of where Samantha was buried. In addition, he learned that Samantha's younger brother was currently a first year at King's College. He filed that tidbit away as it may provide the answer of why the spirit was striking now, ten years late.

When the call ended, he got a text from Mary saying she had taken the day off and managed to insinuate herself near Simon as a grief counselor. That was one less thing for John to worry about. The ghost was not likely to do anything during the daytime from both experience and its specific history. Once it was dark enough, John would be able to use the cover of night to his benefit.

The only problem was getting away from Sherlock without his flatmate suspecting anything. Probably easier said than done.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock was forced to re-evaluate his suspect pool. The only woman or man matching the height descriptor was a third-year Asian student without any obvious connections to the victims. She only appeared at one of the scenes. There was no way she was their killer.

A look into Samantha Moore's family background revealed a further lack of viable suspects. Other than the brother also studying at King's, the rest of the family and extended relations were still living in Lancaster and hadn't been back to London in number of years. The brother did appear at more than one location once the police came onto the scene hours later. But he hadn't been at the library at the time of Zoe's murder.

By noon, Sherlock went over to Bart's to analyze the mud stain from the library. John followed, but was uniquely unhelpful like never before. He was distracted, always checking the time as if he had someplace else (better) to be. Or he would constantly be texting someone (an unusual occurrence because John actually preferred to call). Sherlock decided to ask before resorting to pick pocketing John's phone.

"Mary," John answered. Sherlock had seen how John had considered lying at first before replying truthfully.

He decided to leave it alone for now and turned back to the sample of mud.

Based on composition and an assortment of pollen and microorganisms, he was able to narrow the sample's origin to two London suburbs: Emerson Park and Hacton. The first being the location where all their victims had resided as children. He contemplated sending John to retrieve soil samples from the lake where Samantha Moore had drowned for further analysis. But it was evening and Lestrade just called to let him know that Zoe's autopsy report had come in.

He regretted returning to Scotland Yard almost immediately. On their way to Lestrade's office, they ran into Donovan letting Victor out of an interview room. Victor predictably lit up at the sight of John, but it was plain to see that John was also relieved to see Victor.

"I just need a few words with Victor. I'll meet you at Greg's office." John smiled hesitantly. Trying to placate Sherlock then.

He was in no mood to watch the two of them flirt and stormed off without replying. Donovan watched him go with an all too bright look in her eyes, gleeful even. He was tempted to give his opinion of her latest bout of sexual congress, but she would no doubt respond with some slight against his and John's non-existent relationship.

John found him almost twenty minutes later in the conference room they had been using since last night. Unfortunately, Victor was in tow as well. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I have to step out for a bit. There's an emergency with Mary. I'll be back in a few hours."

John wasn't lying per se. But he also wasn't telling the whole truth.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. His limited patience had just about run out. "We are on a case. I need you here."

His flatmate was visibly uncomfortable now. "I'm sorry. You can call me if something comes up. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can." Then he swiveled and ducked out of the room. His hand landed on one of Victor's shoulders and squeezed before taking off down the halls of New Scotland Yard.

Sherlock stood and started to chase after his flatmate, but Victor had planted himself in the doorway.

"Move," Sherlock ordered.

Victor shook his head slowly. "Just let him go, Sherlock. He's worried about his friend and he said he would be back as soon as possible."

His ire grew by leaps and bounds. "He asked you to do this, to keep me from following him." He already had several ideas about how to remove Victor from his path. Three would injure the man and probably get Sherlock arrested for aggravated assault. John would not be happy when he returned.

"John's worried about you. You tend to get into trouble when you're left to your own devices." Victor raised a questioning eyebrow, challenging Sherlock to contradict him.

He reined in his anger and reasoned through his predicament. No, he didn't have time to chase after John. Solving these murders were much, much more important. John was irritatingly loyal to Mary, but once he verified her safety, he would come right back to Sherlock. Between Mary and Sherlock, John always chose him when it mattered.

He went back to the files on the table, refusing to acknowledge Victor any further. The other man hovered in the room for another minute or two before moving to take a seat. He was openly staring at Sherlock, trying to work something out at a painfully glacial speed. Sherlock began pacing around the table with a folder in hand. Maybe he could somehow give Victor motion sickness by doing so and then he'd leave Sherlock alone.

He got almost thirty minutes of silence before Victor spoke again.

"If I didn't know you as well as I once did, I might have thought this had something to do with me. It does, just in a different way."

"You're as vain as ever, Victor."

"This has to do with John."

Sherlock didn't say anything, forcing himself to focus on Zoe's autopsy report. Cause of death was exsanguination, not surprising given the number of times she was stabbed.

Victor continued, "You should tell him how you feel."

Sherlock snorted, "I suppose you fancy yourself a matchmaker in this case. Once John and I have cleared up any misunderstanding about our feelings for one another, you can gallantly step aside and give your blessing like those fairy tales you study."

"No, John is a wonderful man and if you're stupid enough to not fight for him, that's your loss."

"There's nothing to tell, nothing to fight for," he snapped and pivoted on his heels to face his former classmate. "John's only feelings for me are that of friendship. I am more that content with that. Why would I jeopardize everything for an ill-advised and unwelcome confession?"

"Because you're miserable. You're careful to hide it from him, but every time John even looks at me, you look like you're this close to committing murder yourself," Victor held up his hand with a mere centimeter between his thumb and index finger in demonstration. "At the rate you're going, you're going to drive him away without ever telling him. Telling him and clearing the air is the healthy thing to do. It'll help you get over him at the least. It worked with us."

The bile rising to his mouth was bitter. It almost felt like he wanted to throw up. The idea of giving up John in any manner, even something as illogical as Sherlock's longing for the man, was sickening. John was a hundred, no, a thousand times the man Victor was. To sentence John and his relationship to the same end as his and Victor's was detestable.

"It destroyed our friendship." Sherlock corrected.

Victor's expression softened to something akin to pity. But before Sherlock could say or do anything harsh, the red-haired man replied in the most unexpected manner. "No, that was all me. If anyone destroyed our friendship, it was me. I chose my stupid relationship with Sebastian over you. Sebastian was never worth that, but I was stupid and young. And I never stopped thinking of you as a friend. You may not believe me, but I only want what's best for you."

Never in a million years would Sherlock have expected Victor to take the blame for the dissolution of their association. It was a glimpse of the boy he had once fallen for over a decade ago. But too much time had passed for him and Victor to pick up where they left off. Sherlock would never be able to consider Victor as a friend in the same way. All that was left was the ashes of bridges burnt.

"No, and if you truly care, you won't say a word to John." He hissed.

Victor relented, as Sherlock knew he would, with a visible shift in stance.

Yes, he was miserable (having to watch John with other people, having to share him with other people). But it would be so much worse when John finally leaves him. And John will leave eventually (they all do). Sherlock was well aware that he was only delaying the inevitable until then.

-x-x-x-

The moon was high in the sky by the time John gathered the necessary equipment from Mary's place and drove the Corsa to the cemetery. He was just glad that Samantha had been buried in London and not in Lancaster. The family had moved away so soon after her death, it had been a very high possibility.

Mary had been checking in with him almost every hour. Nothing had happened during the day as they suspected. But now that the sun had set, every minute needed to count.

The drive over gave him a bit of time to think about Sherlock and Victor. He felt bad for subjecting Victor to a stroppy Sherlock, but hopefully his past acquaintance with the man was enough preparation. John owed Victor a lot for helping out tonight. He should probably take him out to dinner when everything was over.

Mary's contact was already at the burial site and had broken ground. There was a tense moment where the two of them sized each other up before shaking hands. Mary had sent them each a photo of the other to help minimize any potential misunderstanding.

They barely spoke as they worked. Each of them just wanted to get this done as soon as possible so they could return to their lives. About five feet into the ground, John's mobile broke the silence. It was Mary.

She gave no greeting. "Are you almost there? She's here."

John punched the speaker button and placed his phone on the ground to take up his shovel again. "And Simon? Mary, you need to protect him."

"I know that! Just hurry up on your end-"

A crackle of ominous static followed, garbling her next words. John and his partner for the night redoubled their efforts, hearts pounding as they heard snatches of Mary warning someone on the other end. A tinny shout came through the phone just as John's shovel hit something solid. He brushed away the last layer of dirt as his partner climbed out of the hole and threw a crowbar down to John.

John muttered a contrite "sorry" before prying back the wood. The stench of decay hit him hard and he struggled to control his gag reflex. A hand reached down and helped to pull him out. John poured salt over the corpse while his partner doused it in petrol as an accelerant.

"John!" Mary screamed over the speakers.

"We're doing it now!" John shouted and struck a match before tossing it in.

The bones were swallowed by fire, tossing up lights and shadows in their immediate vicinity. They watched with bated breath and waited for confirmation from Mary's end.

"It worked," Mary announced moments later. "Good job, guys."

John breathed a sigh of relief and shared a brief smile with his partner. It was over. Now they just had to wait for the flames to die before beginning the arduous process of refilling the grave.

-x-x-x-

It was three hours before John returned, smelling like petrol and barbeque. But he looked unburdened and was more than ready to throw himself back into the case. What he was wearing when he returned was not the same as what he wore when he left Scotland Yard. John was still keeping a change of attire at Mary's. Sherlock flagged the observation with a placeholder. He would examine it again once the case was over.

Victor, annoyingly enough, had stayed with Sherlock almost all evening. But there were no more heart-to-heart that night. Much to Sherlock's annoyance, he was also able to extract the promise of another dinner date from John before finally leaving.

With no further developments or leads, Lestrade kicked them out for the night. John slept. Sherlock managed only to doze for an hour or two.

The next day found them in much the same place as the previous day. John was more pliant than usual. He didn't even complain when Sherlock sent him all the way out to Emerson Park for dirt samples. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would say that John seemed almost guilty. But why?

While John was otherwise occupied, Sherlock went in search of Samantha Moore's younger brother, Franklin. None of his friends or classmates had seen him in the last two days. This set off alarms.

Franklin, or Frank as he was known to his friends, lived in a tiny efficiency flat in Croydon. It was child's play to convince the downstairs neighbor to let him into the building. As he bent over to pick the lock, Sherlock's weight against the door pushed it open. The front door had been left unlocked.

Not a peep could be heard from the other side of the door. Sherlock pocketed his lock picks before entering the flat. His eyes roamed across every surface in his immediate line of sight. The flat showed signs of occupancy within the last few hours. A half-drunken mug of coffee sat on top of the writing desk shoved in the corner of the room. A glance at the tiny kitchenette yielded a second mug on the counter and a kettle full of water that had gone cold since. Franklin had a guest then. An accomplice.

Sherlock did another circuit around the room in search of more clues. Sticking out from under the bed was the straps to a familiar looking backpack. He recognized it as the same bag as the one he had seen at Maughan's days ago. The contents, more worksheets and a Java textbook, confirmed that it was Simon's.

A small closet in the other side of the room had been left ajar. It wasn't being used to store Franklin's clothing. That was what the ratty armoire so stuffed to the brim that the drawers couldn't fully close was for. The interior walls of the closet were wallpapered with newspaper clippings and photos, including those of the previous victims. With a red marker, a large x had been drawn over each of the other student's faces. All except for Simon.

A spray of red on the doorjamb caught his attention: blood, fresh and mere hours old. A cricket bat with more blood lay discarded on the floor just several feet away. The scenario was blindingly clear to Sherlock. Franklin had lured Simon to his flat by false pretense, no force had been necessary to get him to come. Once here, Simon had discovered? Been shown? (not enough data) Franklin's wall of murder. Franklin had (panicked? no, premeditated then) knocked Simon out with the cricket bat.

The only question was where they were. The blood splatter was minimal and head wounds were spectacularly bloody. Simon may still be alive, or at least he wasn't killed in the flat (too clean to be the scene of a murder).

Oh! Drag marks to the door, Franklin dragging the unconscious Simon out the door then. He wouldn't be able to get far in broad daylight without a car, not with a body (unconscious or dead). The only logical hiding place would be the building's basement (like most buildings of its age, the basement would serve as converted storage space). That should give Franklin the space and privacy to complete whatever he had planned.

He spared a moment to text John the address, as well as a command to come at once. The lock to the basement door had been broken in, bearing scratch marks from where someone had taken a metal crowbar to it. Sherlock heard the faint whisper of words on the other side (one voice, male). The metal door creaked and groaned when it swung open. That most likely robbed him of any element of surprise.

Stripes of light filtered in through two tiny barred window near the ceiling. Simon was bound with rope and gagged with gaffer's tape, slumped in an unconscious heap against the cement floor. Dried blood traced a trail from his temple, down his neck, and under his shirt collar. Franklin was sitting on the floor across from the other boy with his fingers wrapped tightly around a kitchen knife (six-inches long with a serrated edge taken from the knife stand in Franklin's kitchenette).

"Don't come any closer." Franklin swiveled around, placing the unconscious Simon between them while balancing the blade against Simon's neck.

By moving around to the other side, Franklin also revealed more of the scene that had been previously obscured to Sherlock. Four lit candles on the floor surrounded a square piece of paper with some symbols drawn in red marker and a ceramic bowl filled with some type of herb. In the center of the paper rested a small plastic ring with a garish butterfly (the sort that a young girl might wear).

Sherlock frowned. This was a completely new ritual aspect. Nothing so far had hinted at this possibility.

Then Sherlock's phone started ringing. He made an abortive move to take out his mobile, catching a glimpse of John's name on the caller ID.

"Don't!" Franklin pressed the knife harder against Simon's neck. "Answer that."

He dropped the mobile back into his coat pocket and held up both his hands in the air. "It makes no difference. The police are already on their way."

Simon stirred in Franklin's hold, groaning and eyelids fluttering as he struggled to consciousness.

"Simon, if you wish to keep your vocal chords intact, I suggest you stay very still." Sherlock warned.

To the young captive's credit, he froze as instructed. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to take in all the details of their surroundings. "Mister Holmes? What's happening?"

"Ten years ago, you and your friends witnessed the death of a neighborhood girl, Samantha Moore. This is her younger brother, Franklin Moore. He appears to have reservations about the actual extents to which you and your friends were involved in his sister's death." Sherlock focused on the knife as he edged closer, calculating how long it would take him to cross the room and disarm Franklin. He needed a distraction.

But there was something still bugging him. Franklin was too hesitant, too nervous. He should have been acclimated to it by now, especially given Zoe's bloody end. The body language was all wrong for a man who had already killed four others.

"Don't come any closer." Franklin snapped.

Sherlock chanced another step closer.

"Stop!"

He stilled.

"I will kill him," Franklin declared and rearranged his grip on the hilt. "I'm going to get justice for Sam. They killed her. And no one did anything about it."

Simon was shaking. "Please we didn't mean it. It was a prank, it was supposed to be a harmless prank. We didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"It doesn't matter what your intentions were. You killed my sister! Now hold still while I call her."

Franklin lifted a glass full of white powder and began pouring a trail of the substance around the candles while chanting in Latin, "Amate spiritum obscure. Te quaerimus. Oramus nobiscum colloquere. Apud nos circita." At the end, he had to release the knife briefly to lit a matchstick. Sherlock took the opportunity and pounced.


	9. March III (Here I wait)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets his date with Victor. Sherlock sulks—but not for the reasons that John thinks.

_Don't get in our way_.

That's what the ghost had said. Our. As in plural. As in more than one.

John wanted to kick himself for missing something so vital. Now Simon—and possibly Sherlock too—were in the hands of the vindictive, living brother of a vengeful spirit. One that had known and probably participated in the supernatural murders of four young people.

His heart leaped into his throat as soon as his cab pulled up just short of the address Sherlock had texted him. The red and blue light from the police patrol cars and the ambulances cast the world in a surreal way. John tossed a handful of notes at the cabby and threw himself out of the vehicle.

Constable Pierce was one of the officers manning the perimeter. As soon as she saw John heading her way, she lifted the tape to let him under. "Mister Holmes is safe. He's in the basement with DI Lestrade."

"Thank you."

When he passed the ambulance, he noticed Simon sitting in the back being examined by a paramedic. There was a thin cut across his neck, but the paramedic was far more interested in the bump on the side of his head. John looked over to the building briefly, reassuring himself that Sherlock was okay and that he could spare a few moments to check on Simon.

"Is it okay if I talk to him for a few moments?"

"He checks out. Just a mild concussion. A few days' rest and you'll be as good as new." She smiled reassuringly at Simon. Then she left them so they could have some privacy.

"Hey, Simon. How are you doing?" John sat down next to the young man on the back of the vehicle. "Bad week, huh?"

Simon stared back with wide and rapidly-blinking eyes. John could feel something inappropriate bubbling in his throat. Simon didn't exactly appear traumatized, but everyone reacted to stress differently. It wasn't John's fault that his often bordered a bit on the absurd.

"That must be the understatement of the millennium," the boy responded dryly. "This whole someone trying to gut me with a knife makes a hell of a lot more sense than...whatever happened yesterday. God, I'm going to be in therapy for the rest of my life. I'm going insane."

Maybe John shouldn't have said anything, but Simon looked so lost. He didn't suppose Mary had too much time to follow up or talk with Simon about what had happened. He could understand how strange the world must look the first time after encountering what was thought to be impossible. "It's okay. You're not going crazy. I promise."

Simon must have recognized or noticed something in John's expression. The young man had resumed his staring, but it was a searching gaze this time. Realization dawned slowly over Simon and he sucked in a loud breath. "It was you. You were the John she was talking to on the phone!"

"I was."

Simon was glancing around at all the other people around them—the coppers, the emergency workers, and the gawking bystanders. "They don't know, do they?"

John shook his head.

The younger man slumped forward, inserting his head between his legs while he gulped for air. It looked almost a panic attack, but Simon was breathing more easily than before. When the paramedic, who was now standing several feet away, noticed, John indicated for her to stay back. She hesitated, but didn't come any closer.

"I'm not crazy then. It all seemed like a nightmare. Your friend didn't stay long after the...ghost burned up." Simon's words were muffled with his face hidden. He raised one hand and waved it abortively a few times before dropping it back to his side.

"No, she had classes to teach today. Are you feeling any better?"

When Simon sat back up, tension was still visibly etched into every line on his youthful face. "Not really, just less like a nutcase. Frank said it was my fault, that his sister couldn't rest in peace because of what we did. If we hadn't played that prank on him, his sister wouldn't have died. Maybe if we had told someone, none of this would have happened. And they're all gone now. I'm the only one left."

Why? That was the question Simon was reluctant to give voice to.

"The police knew about the prank, and her parents knew too. It's in the accident report. Your friend, Zoe, came forward with the truth when it first happened. I know you five tried to save her. Samantha Moore's death was a tragedy, but it was an accident nonetheless."

Silence ensued as Simon digested this new onslaught of information. John could see the same question fruitlessly circling inside Simon's head, like a dog trying to catch its own tail. The agony he must feel over a secret that was never actually a secret, but one that cost him four of his closest friends anyway, must be heartbreaking.

"There isn't always a reason why and you're going to drive yourself mad trying to find one. Ghosts were once human too. It stands to reason that they only make as much sense as us. Which isn't a whole lot given the world we live in." John wished he had more comforting words to share or some better wisdom to impart.

"What do I do now?" Simon asked weakly.

"You live. You move on. Pretend this was all a bad dream if you have to."

"Will I ever to be able to tell anyone the truth about what happened?"

It was at that moment that Sherlock stepped out of the building with Lestrade on his tail. Sherlock was trying to brush the detective aside, but like John, Lestrade knew the key to dealing with Sherlock was stubbornness. John watched for several more seconds, verifying that his flatmate was in one piece before remembering Simon's question. "You can, but there's no guarantee that anyone will believe you."

"I guess you're right." Simon's attention was also elsewhere. Following the other man's gaze, John recognized Hyeonjun standing at the edge of the police perimeter.

Simon rose to his feet slowly, wincing as his limbs jostled. One sleeve rose up to reveal the bruised marks of where his wrists had been bound. The younger man offered a hand to John, which he shook gently.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. No offense, but I'm kinda hoping we never have to meet again."

John understood—death in all its myriad forms was his trade.

Human beings were amazingly resilient creatures, and he'd like to think Simon would move past this eventually. "Take care, Simon."

-x-x-x-

It was Saturday and Mary demanded a pub night in repayment for the day she had to take off from work. John was a bit torn as he was going to take Victor to dinner that night. Either way, the idea of some time spent away from 221B sounded refreshing. Sherlock had been in a strop since yesterday when he had been denied access to Franklin Moore after the arrest.

John had seen the crime scene photos afterwards, showing all the candles and ritual circle. He had seen that particular setup before (there was a case Mary and he had worked in Glasgow). It was for summoning and binding spirits, which answered at least one question about why Samantha Moore had come back from beyond the grave after all these years. Thankfully, Franklin hadn't been able to finish the ritual before Sherlock knocked him out. There was a chance that the spell might not have worked after Samantha's spirit had been so recently exorcised, but John was glad they never got the chance to find out.

Franklin had readily confessed to all four murders, but Sherlock was still trying to reconcile the conflicting facts as he saw them. The Met, on the other hand, was eager to close the case as soon as possible and was quickly en route to prosecuting Franklin for the crimes. So no one really wanted to listen to Sherlock when it seemed like they had everything in hand, even if the main suspect was rambling about the occult in every statement.

John just hoped his flatmate would stop obsessing over the case soon.

Date night with Victor was delayed yet again as Victor and Mary were both interested in meeting the other.

On his way out, he stopped in front of Sherlock's bedroom door that had been left ajar. "I'm going to the pub to see Mary and Victor. You could come along. Victor is leaving the day after tomorrow."

He sighed when he didn't receive a reply from the other side of the door. Not that he had really expected Sherlock to take him up on his offer, but it was worth a try to try and distract the detective from looking too closely at the discrepancies in their latest case.

By the time he arrived at the Dog's Hair, Mary and Victor had already found each other and snagged a table.

"John," she greeted and pecked him lightly on one cheek.

Victor didn't say anything before he reached for John's lapel and pulled him in for a kiss. He couldn't help the hum of pleasure that escaped but was swallowed by Victor's soft lips. Their lips moved sensually against one another, heat starting to coil at the base of John's spine.

"Oh, don't mind me." Mary said dryly. "I wouldn't want to interrupt, though you do owe me a gin and tonic or three." Despite her complaint, there was more than a spark of mischief in her voice.

John pulled away reluctantly, lips still tingling from Victor's touch. "First round's on me then."

After he returned to their table juggling Mary's gin and tonic and two pints (one for him and one for Victor), their conversation settled comfortably into the realm of the mundane. As both of them were educators, Mary and Victor told each other about their work. John loved Mary's stories about her students. They were brilliant injections of normality in his mad, mad life.

They brushed obliquely up against the subject of hunting several times. They allowed Mary to steer them away whenever it happened. That was not what tonight was about. It was about a group of friends going out and having fun.

Victor had gotten up to buy the second round while Mary went off to the ladies' room. John was checking his mobile, surprised that Sherlock hadn't texted him once all night, when his flatmate slid into the chair across from him. He jumped, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

The other man sniffed, dripping in condescension. "You did invite me."

"I don't want to know how you found us."

"Really, John, it's a simple deduction at best."

"Nope, I thought about it, but I don't want to hear about your creepy stalker ways."

John was reminded of something he once said to someone years ago:  _He doesn't follow me everywhere._  How naive and patently untrue that turned out to be.

Whatever Sherlock's retort, it was interrupted by Victor's return. Surprise was painted across the professor face. "Sorry, mate, didn't know you were coming. I just got the latest round."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain. "You know I don't like to imbibe alcohol, Victor."

"Right," Victor muttered—a tight rictus of a smile stretched across his lips.

Sherlock's unwavering scrutiny followed as John reached out and smoothed a hand over Victor's clenched fist. It was critical and sent a spark that was wholly unrelated to Victor's proximity dancing down his nerve endings. Something twisted in John's stomach, but he refused to let his flatmate's disapproval get to him.

Mary thankfully saved them from too much further awkwardness. "Good evening, Sherlock. Joining us then?"

"It would appear so, Ms. Morstan." Sherlock sounded like he had finally warmed up to Mary, even if he wasn't completely comfortable with her.

In retaliation of Sherlock taking his seat, Victor pulled up a chair next to John. He stayed close for the rest of the evening. There were times when John thought the other man was going to sit in his lap. This experience was not helped by the fact that Sherlock remained sour the entire time. John caught himself on the verge of a beleaguered sigh on multiple occasions. Why the hell was Sherlock here if he wasn't enjoying himself? Why did he suddenly feel like a chess piece in some twisted game between Victor and Sherlock?

When Mary demanded that he help her carry her round, he mouthed a fervent "thank you." The two of them jammed themselves up against the bar, not working particularly hard to get the bartender's attention. She leaned lightly against his side, and John allowed his wrecked nerves to be soothed by the contact.

"I think they're fighting over you." Mary wagged an eyebrow suggestively.

He squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. "It's not like that. Sherlock and Victor, they have history together."

She turned to openly observe the two men still seated at their table. John risked a glance and found them silent and staring at one another. It was difficult to deny the heat in their gazes. Did Victor actually want Sherlock?

"Wow, really? What do you know? Sherlock Holmes isn't a cold fish after all. So they were together then?"

"I don't think so. But Sherlock had...a thing...feelings for Victor...I don't know." John tried his best not to get too discouraged while thinking about the two men together. The images came all too easily. They were just too damn good looking and so damn tall (John was perfectly average height, thank you very much, it's not his fault that he was always stuck next to tall wankers that made him look miniscule in comparison). They just fit together—aesthetically like a matched set.

"You don't know which one you're more jealous of." She stated plainly after giving their order.

"Witchcraft," he muttered accusingly (how else could she read his mind so easily?). She giggled.

Her eyes crinkled as she gestured back to their table and smiled. "At least my life's not an old episode of EastEnders."

He was tempted to chuck a drink coaster at her, but she wouldn't even need to dodge as the damn things weren't exactly aerodynamic.

Mary's round turned out to be the last one of the night. She hadn't driven into London and needed to get on the tube before it was too late. Victor agreed to call it a night as he had a lunch meeting with a colleague the next day. John silently thanked his lucky star as he didn't relish the idea of being stuck between Sherlock and Victor without her as a blessed buffer.

He hugged her before she sauntered off in the direction of the nearest tube station, melting away into the late evening crowd. Victor walked with him and Sherlock for a few blocks until they were at a main road where it was easier to flag a cab.

"Good night, Sherlock," Victor declared decisively and pulled John aside. It was a warning to the other man to keep his distance. It was the rudest John could recall of Victor being. Victor leaned in until his hot breath played across the shell of John's ear, causing the blond man to shiver in response. "I'll see you tomorrow night then?" The question was punctuated by the brush of fingers around John's wrist.

"It's a date," John promised.

He could feel Sherlock's gaze burning into his turned back. John was burning up, but he was no longer sure which man was the cause.

-x-x-x-

The pipes clanged as the shower turned off in the upstairs bathroom. John was finished with his shower. Sherlock's previous data collection on the matter suggested that his flatmate took an average of fifteen minutes to get ready for any given date. Twenty, if he was looking to impress for the night. Sherlock pressed his mouth against his folded hand and glared at John's mobile sitting among the detritus on the coffee table.

Victor rang once while John was in the shower, and then texted twice afterwards. Sherlock barely read and processed any of the messages fully before deleting them both with great satisfaction. John would never be able to tell—he always likes to assume the best about people.

Bare feet slapped against the ceiling as John moved into his bedroom, where his suit and tie would be laid out neatly across his double bed.

The phone buzzed again and the vibrations sent a nearby pen rolling. He snapped up the device and opened the latest message. It filled him with a rage that almost sent the phone sailing into a wall. But no, John would definitely notice that. Sherlock stuffed the offensive object in the sofa cushions and moved to take up his violin. He needed something loud and discordant—anything to drown out the angry buzzing in his head.

He managed the first movement of some Beethoven before descending into ear piercing cacophony.

He was angry with himself. All those years where John had objected to the insinuations about their imagined status as a couple had nothing to do with a sexual identity threatened, but everything to do with Sherlock as the other half of that couple. That was a lesson Sherlock should have learned years ago. It was why he had written off the idea of an intimate relationship for as long as he had (not that he had the slightest inkling of attraction in those interim years). Then John Watson came into his life—wrapped in a hideous plaid shirt and smelling like the desert—and wrecked everything.

Now his much vaulted and hard-won self-control was in tatters.

John was moving down the stairs now into the living room. "Sherlock, have you seen my phone?"

He turned to face his flatmate, but the sight greeting him immediately made his fingers wrapped around the neck of the instrument spasm. New shirt. New tie. Recently purchased, probably earlier today while Sherlock was out of the flat. Hair neatly tamed and combed. Trousers recently pressed and not just thrown on. John was trying; he wanted to impress.

"Sherlock, my phone?"

"I don't know." He snapped. A lie, a blatant lie. But as usual, John couldn't tell the difference.

John adopted his most-put-upon-man-in-London expression and started digging through their living room. Sherlock didn't stare (maybe a little) at the man's arse when he bent over to search through a collapsed pile of books by the armchairs. Wasn't noting the way the pelts smoothed out over the curve of the other man's buttocks. Sherlock went back to his violin, drawing a particularly screechy whine from it and causing John to visibly wince.

"Where's your mobile? I'll just call mine."

He grunted noncommittally and whipped his bow in the direction of the writing desk. He and his phone were not currently on speaking terms, as it refused to deliver news of a case to draw John away from his date.

"It wouldn't kill you to pick up around the flat once in a while." John groused as he continued on his hunt.

Boring. Sherlock rather liked the controlled chaos of their shared living space.

"Oh." The man breathed softly and Sherlock sensed a change in mood. The sudden quiet was so out of place that his curiosity quickly got the better off him. One of the desk drawers was open and John held a familiar Vertu Constellation Quest in hand.

John continued, "This is her phone, isn't it?"

Was John trying to be purposely obtuse? "Yes, the Woman's."

A shuttered expression came over John's face. "I see." Then after a brief pause, "Why do you still have it?"

Sherlock shrugged. There was no particular reason. It had been in the rest of his belonging when Mycroft returned his things. He had taken it out and dumped it back into the same place he stored it before leaving. One never knew when a luxury mobile set might turn out to be useful for a case.

John was mumbling something to himself, but Sherlock caught the end of it: ... _kept it if she left him._ He furrowed his brow in confusion. Irene Adler wasn't part of the equation; she hadn't been in years. She was never again going to be part of anything in their lives. The Constellation Quest was dropped back into the drawer before it was slammed shut. John brushed by him and took his coat off the hook.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock didn't like this lost feeling one bit.

John sighed. "I'm meeting Victor, remember? I'm going to be late. I won't have my mobile, so I trust you can stay out of trouble and keep the flat in one piece for one night?"

He didn't want John to leave, but he liked the idea of being out of contact with John even less. Sherlock dug his doctor's mobile from the couch and called to him just as he was opening the front door. John caught the device deftly and stared at Sherlock in surprise.

"Sherlock?" John's shoulders had slumped in defeat. Why?

"What?"

"You mind, do you?"

"Mind what?"

"Me and Victor."

"Since when have I ever cared about whom you choose to date?"

"You hid my phone to keep me from going out. I think that's a pretty big hint."

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

"I'm not stupid, you know? I know you have feelings for him. Victor told me."

"Victor's mistaken!" Sherlock snarled.

"It's okay if you do, Sherlock. If it really bothers you, I can call this off. You may not believe it, but you are my best friend."

John looked so small and resigned. Sherlock hated it. His friend wasn't meant to look so defeated. He had no doubt that John would ditch his date if Sherlock asked him to, but it would another nail in the coffin to bury their friendship. John was going to tire of making these sacrifices someday. And if he asked John to stop seeing Victor without any intention to follow through with his own advances (the mere thought of shamming it with Victor made Sherlock feel sick), the resentment would only grow.

It was a lose-lose situation. Lose John now, or lose him later.

"It's fine," At John's disbelieving expression, Sherlock added, "Really, John. Victor hasn't been a concern for many years."

Like Irene. Neither of them were part of the picture anymore. Why couldn't John see that? It should be obvious.

Their eyes locked from across the room. Something unseen thrummed in the space between them. It was weighty and made it hard for Sherlock to tear his attention away from John.

John's mobile started ringing, breaking off their gazes. "It's Victor," he read off the caller ID.

"Go," Sherlock turned back to the windows.

John's voice faded out as he descended the stairwell to the street below. "Hello? Sorry, Victor. I'm on my way over—" The rest of the conversation was swallowed by London's evening traffic, and then silence.

He retreated into his Mind Palace, revisiting old memories from uni he never deleted. Every once in a while, he was tempted to purge all things Victor Trevor related. But it was a lesson he couldn't afford to forget, especially now given his  _feelings_ for John.

He sorted meticulously through the remaining memories, reliving much despised moments of weakness and shame. He even remembered hating Victor a little by the time he left Cambridge. Despite his old friend's assurance to the contrary, Sherlock could no longer be sure their friendship could have lasted even if Sebastian Wilkes hadn't come between them first.

He couldn't let history repeat itself again—not with John. Sherlock had already lived without John for too long. He didn't like who he was in those years in hiding. To go back to that would destroy him. John was integral to the Work, and Sherlock needed the Work more than anything.

But the longing wouldn't abate (it wreaked havoc on his thoughts), nor would the sense that Victor was wrong for John (at least Mary had hidden depths; Victor was shallow in comparison).

He grabbed his mobile from under a pile of old newspapers; fingers itching in irritation. He typed out a message addressed to John.

TO: John Watson  
 _Victor only pursues emotionally unavailable men, the ones that cannot or will not return his affections._

As soon as he affixed the period to the end of the sentence, he was hitting the backspace button furiously. No, that made him sound like a jealous lover (which he absolutely, absolutely was not). He closed the window and opened up a new blank message to Victor's number instead.

TO: Victor Trevor  
 _There's no place on earth you can hide if you hurt him. SH_

He didn't receive any reply—not that he hadn't expected to. But as Sherlock suspected, John didn't return to 221B that night.

-x-x-x-

John would have thought that dinner would be awkward after the conversation he just had before leaving Baker Street. But Victor had a way of putting people at ease (the complete opposite of Sherlock), and John found it a little too easy to put his flatmate out of mind.

"You should come with a warning," John said at the restaurant.

"Good thing I'm an unassuming old professor of boring literature. Imagine me as a criminal mastermind."

John pushed back at the sudden intrusion of Jim Moriarty into his thoughts. "We'd all be doomed." In a sudden fit of audacity, he squeezed Victor's knee under the table.

So when Victor invited him up to his hotel room for a drink, how could John say no?

The moment John stepped into Victor's room, the red-haired man had him pinned against the back of the door. A hard thigh insinuated itself between John's legs and a tongue in his mouth. He groaned and grabbed onto the other man's jacket, drawing Victor closer. This, the taste of Victor's mouth and the heat of the taller body pressed so closely that they could melt into one another, was so gloriously familiar. John remembered other aspects of the life-affirming sex they had in the master bedroom of a house in Cambridge—like the weight of Victor's cock in his mouth, the slide of skin against Egyptian cotton, and the play of moonlight over Victor's face when he finally orgasmed.

It had been so long since he'd been this close to someone—since far before Sherlock even came back into his life.

Victor pulled back far enough for their eyes to focus on one another without crossing. "Will you stay the night?"

John's mouth ran dry at the idea. It was a tempting offer. Victor was gorgeous and more than a little interested going by the half-hard cock nestled against John's stomach.

The other man leaned forward and nipped his jaw. The action was accompanied by a wicked roll of his hips that sent all of John's blood rushing south. "Say you'll stay, John. We don't have to make a fuss about it. I'll be heading back to Cambridge in the morning, so help make my last night in London a memorable one."

"You mean the murdering spirit wasn't memorable enough for you?" John fought back with a palm pressed against the front of Victor's trousers, who let out a delicious groan and then bit his ear lobe in retaliation.

The taller man pulled John away from the door to the bed in the center of the room. Victor's fingers were still looped through John's belt as his free hand began deftly unbuttoning his own shirt buttons, slowly unveiling a line of tanned flesh. "Exhilarating, yes, but not really the sort I was hoping for."

John had nowhere to go but down when Victor's grip transferred from his belt to his tie. He straddled across the other man's lap, taking the time to admire the view as the silk around his neck was being undone. "Yep, you should definitely come with a warning label. A regular menace." He said, alluding to their earlier conversation. He reached up and pushed the fabric off Victor's shoulders to unveil more skin for perusal.

A rumble of laughter rolled off the torso pressed against John's chest. His shirt was untucked from his pants and a pair of warm hands slid up the skin of his back.

"What does that say about you then, Doctor Watson? On the lookout for trouble then?" Victor whispered huskily.

 _I said "dangerous"_ _and here you are._

John dove forward and captured Victor's lips to shut the traitorous voice in his head up. The other man melted back into the mattress, allowing John to comfortably rest his weight. His hand found and tightened in Victor's red curls (shorter than... no, he was not going down that road). John pressed harder, grinding their hips together as he thrust his tongue into Victor's pliant mouth. He could do this, he could forget about...

Then his phone in his pocket chirped twice in succession. It had been silent all night. Not a peep. Until now. And there was only one person that would text him that many times in a row.

John apologized as he sat up, "I'm sorry. I'll turn it off after I check it."

There were two text notifications, but neither of them was from Sherlock. One was Lestrade hounding him about paperwork needed for the Yard, and the other was Mary wishing him well on his date with a salacious smiley face. John should have felt relief, but it eluded him.

"Is it Sherlock?" Victor asked.

John placed the phone down on the duvet between them. "It wasn't him."

"You sound almost disappointed."

"Victor..."

The man rolled away and pulled on his wrinkled shirt, before doing up the buttons.

John's mouth ran dry as he groped around for any excuse within reach. How did he begin to explain his complicated, but ultimately futile feelings for his flatmate? He wanted Victor. He wanted to want Victor. He tried again. "Victor." But when words eluded him again, he grabbed the other man's shoulder, spun him around, and sealed his mouth to his. Victor stilled under him and his soft lips pursed in a grimace that John could not ignore.

Then Victor's hands moved to rest against his ribs and gently pushed him away. "Don't."

"I'm sorry."

"It was fine. We're two consenting adults. I meant it when I said we didn't need to make a big deal out of this, but you can't help it. It can't not be a big deal to you, can it?" Victor sighed. It was a heavy and resigned sound.

John repeated himself, "I'm sorry." He was ready to die from shame. This was not how he intended the evening to end. "I shouldn't be here. I can't do this to him." He got up to retrieve the jacket he had discarded on the floor on the way to bed. The silence was overwhelming as he shrugged the outerwear back on.

Victor was muttering something underneath his breath. It sounded vaguely like "you two are hopeless."

"He still has feelings for you." John couldn't rid himself of the image of Sherlock from before he left the flat. His friend had purposely maintained a blank face, but John recognized the signs of something more—something pained—swimming underneath the surface. There was no way he could easily brush their last conversation off or take Sherlock's platitude for real. Not when John had just stumbled over Irene Adler's old camera phone again.

Sherlock's heart may be unfathomable, but it did exist.

"Did Sherlock say something?" Victor asked.

"No, but he didn't have to. I could tell."

"Is that really what you think or is that the excuse you're telling yourself?" Victor's tone was a familiar one; it was disbelieving. He sounded like everyone else that never believed John when he tried to convince them that he and Sherlock were not a couple.

"There's nothing between me and Sherlock." John almost instantly regretted saying his flatmate's name when Victor looked up sharply at him.

After scanning his face carefully, Victor said, "You can tell him."

John wondered just how obvious his infatuation was if Victor could see right through him. It seemed almost everyone except for Sherlock had noticed. But this sort of emotional stuff was always a blind spot for the great detective. "I can't," he swallowed around the lump now lodged in his throat to speak. "I just can't."

"John, have you ever considered the possibility that he might return your feelings? You'd never know unless you said something."

His mouth flapped open and shut several times as he tried to put together a response of any sort. There's no way John can say anything to Sherlock. He'd sooner tell his friend about the supernatural and hunting before mentioning his absurd infatuation. "This is Sherlock we're talking about. He can't..."

"Can't what? You don't think he can love at all, or that he just can't love you?" Victor challenged.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he snapped in return.

Frustration colored Victor's features. He didn't seem ready to drop the subject yet, but he threw his hand up in the air and capitulated. "I'm just trying to help, but that's hopeless as long as we're all intent on being properly stoic British men."

The simple truth was no one could help John. But he had been resigned to that fact a long time ago, probably when he first realized he loved Sherlock. "I should go. Good night, Victor, I hope you have a safe trip back to Cambridge."

Victor rose from the mattress, causing John to tense when the other man came near. He leaned forward and gave a chaste press of lips against lips before whispering, "Goodbye, John Watson."

Outside the hotel, John hailed the first cab to cross his path and gave the driver Mary's address. Half an hour later and twenty pounds lighter, he was turning his key in Mary's front door. The hallway was dark, but John could still make out the edge of the devil's trap peeking out from under the askew rug. Blue light flooding out from the living room along with the muted sounds of a television set.

"John, is that you? If not, I should warn you, whoever you are, that I have a number of firearms and I'm not afraid to use them." Mary called from the other room.

"Announcing your advantage ruins your element of surprise." John replied as he went to her. As he entered the room, he could see her comfortably ensconced in the sofa with a pot of tea on the table in front of her.

"Wouldn't be a fair fight otherwise."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't be."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to go back to Baker Street, can I stay here for tonight?"

She was studying him. He could sense all the questions floating around in her head, but dreaded answering any of them (but he would because she was Mary). But she didn't ask him anything. Instead, Mary scooted over on the couch and lifted the corner of her afghan. It was all the invitation John needed.

"We're watching QI. I'm halfway through the second season." She declared and offered him a sip of tea from her mug.

The warm liquid rolled across his tongue in a tapestry of subtle favors. She favored any number of loose tea leaves that he had no hope of identifying. It was good though and warmed the pit of his belly. John undid his tie and chucked it at the telly when Alan Davies made a particularly scorn-worthy pun. Mary giggled helplessly and fell against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her closer.

This was fine, better than fine even.

"Thank you," he whispered into her hair.

She shushed him in favor of Jimmy Carr, but not before he heard her quiet and satisfied hum first.

-x-x-x-

For Sherlock, morning didn't come soon enough. Had Sherlock been the kind of person to lose sleep over personal drama, it would have been that sort of night. But he regularly deprived himself of sleep as it was, so it wasn't an unusual occurrence when he didn't go to bed. He broke out John's collection of QI season DVDs just to have some noise running in the background.

He had no idea when to expect John back, as he had collected relatively little data about John after a successful date (rare and far in between as those were). Victor's train had been due to leave King's Cross at 11AM. It was almost noon now. It was also entirely possible that their date had gone so well that Victor decided to take a later train to get more time with John.

That thought alone caused a violent twist in Sherlock's gut.

He reached for his phone and willed Lestrade to call with a case or Molly with an interesting body for him to examine. Or a text from John. Or god forbid, even from Victor. But there was only the sound of early weekend traffic to break the quietness of the flat.

"Hoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson called from the front door she had just strolled through carrying a tray of tea and fry-up. "It sounded like you pulled another all-nighter, so I brought you boys a bit of a late breakfast."

As soon as she entered the kitchen with her load, Sherlock heard a cluck indicating her ever-present disapproval of the state of their flat. He ignored her and unfurled the day's copy of  _The Sun_  in search of anything even mildly diverting.

"John, dear, come down and have a bite." Their landlady called up the stairs to John's bedroom. When she didn't receive any immediate reply, she tried again, "John?"

"He's not here, Mrs. Hudson." He snarled and turned noisily the next page (boring, boring, deathly tedious, the brother-in-law did it and it was covered up with his business partner's help...).

"I didn't hear him leave this morning."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grind his molars. "That's because he never came back last night. A. Date."

Mrs. Hudson cheerfully plopped down next to Sherlock on the sofa and smoothed out the wrinkles in her mauve dress. He buried his nose further into the paper in an attempt to convey just how unwelcomed the idea of further conversation was. She either missed that or she was ignoring his reticence (given that it was Mrs. Hudson, it was almost undoubtedly the second option). "That sounds lovely. He hasn't gone on one since you both came back to Baker Street, has he? Although there was that lovely girl, Mary,"

(And to think Sherlock would now to be longing for those days when Mary Morstan was his biggest threat [non-threat]...)

"She seemed sweet, but you could tell they were only interested in being friends. They just didn't have that spark. I could tell. John used to have the worst trouble dating. I remember he was too busy chasing you around to pay any attention to those poor girls."

"Mrs. Hudson, please..." Sherlock pleaded.

She soldiered on though, "It's good that he's getting back on that horse. As George used to say, 'you can't win the game if you won't play it'."

"Yes, because we should all be taking advice from your serial murdering ex-husband," he muttered irritably under his breath.

Before she could scold him, the door downstairs opened and closed with a brisk slam.

"Oh, that must be him. I'll leave you boys to it." She said and exited the flat with a swiftness that her infamous dodgy hip belied.

Sherlock tried listening to the indistinct conversation being held at the bottom of the stairs. But they were too quiet and he too far away to make out anything. When John finally started mounting the stairs minutes later, the pace was animated with a touch of hesitation. It sounded as if John was at least content. Sherlock hoped that meant John would not see fit to restart the same conversation from last night. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Victor.

"Morning, Sherlock." His flatmate greeted when he stepped into the flat.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the paper and grunted slightly in reply. He was putting it off, but he wasn't ready to lay eyes on John and deduce all of last night's activity in a glance yet.

"Please don't do this," John was exasperated now. "Mrs. Hudson said you were particularly being a brat this morning."

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and threw it down on the coffee table before turning his attention to the other man.

A different outfit from last night—from the several outfits he still kept at Mary's house? Confirmed by the smell of lavender (Mary's favored scent) and the distinct musk of Mary's Harrow home clinging to John. His back ached as it always did when he fell asleep on the couch, and there was no such furniture in Victor's hotel room. Additional evidence of his time with Mary was found in the syrup stain on his shirt cuff, paired with the bag from Kopapa in Covent Garden placed on the kitchen table.

Conclusion: He spent the night at Mary's, and she drove him back into the city where they had breakfast together before John came the rest of the way back on the Tube.

Implication: John had not spent the night with Victor. Hadn't even seen him off at the train station. John's relaxed mood signaled a clean yet amiable break.

"What?" John fidgeted nervously under his gaze.

"You've been with Mary."

"Uh, yeah. We had breakfast this morning."

"You slept on her couch last night."

"Do you want to talk about—"

"No," Sherlock cut in before the name Victor could be said. "No."

John seemed willing to accept the change in topic. "Okay, have you eaten anything since yesterday? There's Mrs. Hudson's fry-up. Otherwise, I have some leftover banana French toast from this morning."

"The French toast and a side serving of Mrs. Hudson's eggs."

"Coming right up, your Idleness. I'll bring you a cuppa too."

Sherlock's phone chirped. At first, he favored it with only a half-hearted glance until he noticed who the text message was from.

FROM: Victor Trevor  
 _Take good care of him. The threat is an implied one, but you probably already deduced that._

The bang of cutlery against plates calmed the last of Sherlock's nervous energy. John was home and he wasn't going anywhere. Victor wasn't going to steal his flatmate away and even Mary could only borrow John for brief periods. This was fine. Sherlock would count his blessings for every moment that John chose to stay. It was more than he had any right to hope for.


	10. Good Friday & Holy Saturday (A demon named Charlie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts on a new case while John is out of town. He's going to regret not waiting for his partner's backup first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Description of mild gore

The flat was completely still and Sherlock's brain was well on its way to autocannibalization. John left yesterday to spend Easter weekend with his sister and her latest girlfriend (surprisingly the same one from Christmas: deeply religious and was insistent about finally meeting John). His flatmate had left with a heavy heart, much like a condemned prisoner. And Mrs. Hudson would also be out of town at her sister's for an entire week as of this morning.

The unbearable lull had been preceded by two whole case-less weeks. Sherlock was more than ready to shoot the walls, but John had gotten particularly good at hiding his gun of late. To the point where Sherlock was almost certain his flatmate was keeping it at Mary's half the time.

If there wasn't a murder soon, Sherlock would be forced to test the physical possibility of death by boredom.

There was a strange buzzing sound in the air. He swatted the air briefly as he thought it might have been some sort of irritating insect. But the noise persisted. "Shut up!" He screamed to the empty air.

There was very much the chance it was an auditory hallucination.

It took several more seconds to realize the source of his irritation was his phone. He drew the device out of his dressing gown pocket and answered without even looking at the name on the screen.

He was prepared to talk to just about anyone to alleviate the tedium. "Sherlock Holmes," he barked. "Speak up, and _don't_ be boring."

"Sherlock?" His mother's voice was made tinny and distorted by the tiny speakers.

Almost anyone indeed. He winced and sat up straighter. "Mummy."

"Is everything alright? You picked up." She sounded a bit stunned.

He rolled his eyes, and reveled in being able to do so without her scolding him. "Boredom. I'll be sure to let you ring out next time, lest I worry you."

"Don't you dare. It's not too late to come home for Easter, mon petit. Mycroft could send a car if you'd rather not brave the trains."

"If you would desist in inviting Aunt Gretchen to these family gatherings, you wouldn't find yourself wishing I was there to run her off." He said dryly while pulling on a thread unfurling from his gown. "What is the target of her diatribe this year?"

She answered in French, "It seems that daring to speak any language other than English in her presence is the epitome of rudeness."

Sherlock switched as well, "She's right next to you, isn't she?"

"You are my bright little one," Mummy said with an undisguised heap of fondness. John often (and Lestrade on rare occasions) used that exact same tone, and it was strange hearing it from his mother of all people.

The doorbell downstairs shrieked twice in succession and drowned out whatever his mother said. There was a brief pause before the same pattern of two buzzes was repeated. Impatient and anxious, worried that no one might be home, can't wait: a client.

"I have to go. I have a client downstairs." He climbed to his feet and headed for the door.

"Sherlock, I'll have Mycroft come by before he drives out in case you—"

He ended the phone call before she could finish her sentence. She could send Mycroft all she liked, but he wasn't going to willingly subject himself to another weekend of family tedium. Not when December was still months away.

He glanced down at his state of dress. Had John been here, his partner could entertain the client while he changed. Even Mrs. Hudson would do in a pinch. But Sherlock had neither of them this weekend. He made an attempt to smooth out his disheveled hair before wrenching open the door.

The client (female; mid-forties; clad head-to-toe in high-end luxury name brands; minimal jewelry except for the large ruby pendant resting against her throat [antique—family heirloom]; old money wealthy; arrived by cab instead of her personal car) had one gloved finger poised over the doorbell. "Oh!" She exclaimed while parts of her face remained strangely immobile (regular botox treatments). "Is this the residence of a Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"Do you have a case?" He snapped impatiently.

"Pardon?" She clutched her handbag tighter to her chest.

"Yes, yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Now keep up. Do you have a case for me?"

Some pedestrian passed in the street behind them and she ducked her head, allowing the wide brim of her sunhat to hide her face. It was an overly cautious move when half of her face was already obscured by a huge pair of aviator sunglasses. So paranoid, and justifiably so in her book.

She tried to look past him. "May we talk inside?"

He sighed heavily and stepped aside to let her through the door. Without waiting, he climbed the stairs two at a time to the second-floor flat. He looked down at his attire again before going to his bedroom to change first. He threw on his least wrinkled suit and automatically reached for the wristwatch John had given him on the nightstand. As soon as his fingers made contact with the cool metal, he remembered what had happened yesterday. As the result of a particularly vigorous experiment the previous day, he managed to pop the back cover of the watch off. He hadn't found the chance to take it for repairs yet. With one last lingering glance, he left it on the nightstand.

When he returned to the living room, the client was standing nervously in the doorway and looking at the chaos with thinly concealed disgust. Sherlock supposed the flat may be slightly more messy than usual. The books usually piled high next to their armchairs had been knocked over during Sherlock's frantic search for something (didn't remember what, didn't matter anymore).

As Sherlock took a seat in his usual chair, she lowered herself cautiously into John's. After settling her handbag in her lap, she finally removed her hat and gave him a look at her dark brown hair (dyed to hide the gray) pulled back in a tight bun. Her sunglasses remained in place, but her silhouette was easily identifiable.

"What can I do for you today, Lady Blackwell?" He asked and folded his hands in front of him.

Lady Eva Blackwell, a famed philanthropist and married to one of Britain's greatest Olympian athletes, stiffened at the mention of her name, before forcing herself to relax again. She took off her sunglasses in deference to his recognition. "I see you come highly recommended for a reason, Mister Holmes."

"Hardly, you've been in the news on several occasions lately for your foundation's work. I simply haven't gotten around to deleting the information." Sherlock managed to catch the sneer first. Usually he wouldn't give a damn, but he was gagging for a case. Exercising self-control, how dull. But John wasn't here to help with the pesky interpersonal bits. "But that's not why you're here. It's more personal."

"You must promise me your utmost discretion."

"I'll be the judge of that, once you explain your situation in full. Now hurry up."

"Very well," she straightened her posture before starting. "Have you ever heard of Charles Augustus Milverton?"

Sherlock did a quick scan through his Mind Palace and found the name in a list of suspicious figures he once considered related to Moriarty, but later found otherwise. "An executive in a talent agency, long rumored to blackmail minor celebrities and others into giving him what he wants."

Rumored and never proven in the eyes of the law, but Sherlock knew a criminal when he saw one.

"I assure you that the rumors are very much true. I was approached a week ago by his PA to set up a meeting. Mister Milverton expressed interest in becoming involved with my foundation, or at least donating a substantial amount to support our work." She paused to collect her thoughts.

Sherlock began tapping one foot impatiently. He never understood why clients insisted on retelling the boring parts. "And I assume it was neither."

She continued, "No, he took the opportunity to demand twenty million pounds in exchange for some compromising photos of my husband. Otherwise, he had threatened to share them with the Sun and other tabloids. I simply cannot raise that much money in so short a time, and I'd rather die before taking anything out of the foundation."

"You're absolutely sure he has these photos he claims to have?"

"Yes," she loudly bit her bottom lip. "He showed them to me, both the photographs and the video."

"I don't see how I can help, Lady. You know the culprit, the motive, and the means to appease him. Better yet, you can leave your husband to his fate. He did cheat on you, and don't even try to deny it. How did I figure it out? There are only so many possibilities when it comes to compromising photos. Secondly, you came to me on your own. Now it could be that you are trying to protect him out of sentiment," he screwed his face at the word. "But that's not it, is it? Thus far, you've only referred to him as your husband, never by name. You don't wear your wedding ring unless you know you're about to be photographed. So you're merely keeping up appearances, despite the fact that your marriage has been void of love for at least a decade. He is a serial adulterer, and you've overlooked it before in the past. So what about this incident warrants the extra attention and Milverton's exaggerated price tag? Your husband has either bedded someone of a particular reputation or the nature of their sexual congress is more deviant than most."

Eva Blackwell took several deep breaths that caused her nostrils to flare with every inhalation. Sherlock waited for her to explode in rage, but was slightly disappointed when it never came. Instead, she folded her hands primly in her lap and squared her shoulders as her posture straightened. "You're entirely right. Normally, I wouldn't worry myself with my husband's indiscretions. But they are particularly scandalous this time, even without Milverton's threats. If this comes to the public's attention, it will ruin the Blackwell Foundation. It won't matter how much good I've done in the past. Whatever you may think of me, Mister Holmes, know that I am utterly devoted to my life's work. This is a critical time for my organization, and I cannot allow the mistakes in my personal life become the downfall of my professional one."

"What would you have me do then?"

"I am in need of your particular skill set, Mister Holmes. Your website claims you can identify an airline pilot from his thumb and a software engineer from his tie. You have a reputation for reading a person's entire life and their darkest secrets from a glance. That is what I need from you. I need you to attend my negotiations with Milverton and read him. Use anything against him to give me leverage."

"My Lady, are you asking me to blackmail a blackmailer?" The beginning of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. This was turning out more interesting than originally anticipated.

She clenched her jaws and squared her shoulders. "Whatever is necessary. I'm prepared to pay handsomely for your services."

He brushed her off with a wave of his hand. "That won't be necessary. I'll take your case."

John was going to be mad once he found out that Sherlock had turned down payment. But that would teach him a lesson about abandoning Sherlock.

-x-x-x-

_John, come home. We have a case. SH_

No. No. Oh, and no.

_Stop being stubborn. You're clearly not enjoying your time with Harry based on your swift response time. SH_

Harry's sober. And this visit's really important to Jenny. Harry'll skin me if I try to skip out before Easter.

_You're still bored out of your mind. I'm trying to help by offering you a case and a damsel-in-distress to rescue. SH_

Has someone died or is in danger of dying?

_It's a case of blackmailing. SH_

No? Then you can wait till Monday. I told you I wouldn't be able to help you with any cases this weekend unless it was a matter of life and death.

_That's decidedly unchivalrous of you. A woman's reputation is at stake. SH_

Still not life or death. See you in three days.

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_John! SH_

_John? SH_

_This is childish, don't ignore my texts. SH_

Just be careful. Don't do anything stupid.

 

 

> Unsent draft  
>  TO: John Watson  
>  _ ~~If I said that I missed you, would you come home then? SH~~_  
>  _ ~~It's difficult to think without you. SH~~_  
>  _ ~~Come back. SH~~_  
>  _ ~~Three years ago, I thought I saw you in Edinburgh. I tailed him for four blocks before I realized it wasn't you. SH~~_  
>  _I need ~~you~~ my blogger. SH_

{Delete draft?}  
{Yes / No}

{Yes}

-x-x-x-

There were several reasons that factored into Sherlock taking Eva Blackwell's case. Her charity and the associated concerns were hardly Sherlock's problem. But he knew an opportunity to leverage a future favor when it came knocking on his door. Having Lady Blackwell gratefully in his debt was far more valuable than any cash payment she could give.

Secondly, he hoped the tale of a damsel in distress (even if Lady Blackwell was anything but, reminded him a bit of Mary actually) would be enough to convince John to come home early. No such luck as John refused to cut his visit short. Even if he was clearly uncomfortable and felt like an outsider in Harry's sudden bout of domestic bliss. At least that was what Sherlock could tell from the texts John sent in return.

Even those were mere perks. The real puzzle was Milverton's recent change in target type. Like most blackmailers, Milverton was a cowardly and opportunistic criminal at best. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had ultimately written off Milverton as one of Moriarty's associates. It didn't take a particular clever person to spy on and blackmail starlets and others in the entertainment industry that were prone to scandal in the first place.

But the Lady Eva Blackwell was on an entirely different level. According to his sources, all of Milverton's recent targets were people that ran in high society circles. These were not low-risk targets. They were the sort of people who jealously guarded their reputations, titles, and family names with some of the best security money could afford. They were also the sort that Milverton didn't run into in his regular line of work. It was not the sort of job most blackmailers could pull off without a person on the inside. Sherlock needed to know what had caused Milverton to step up his game so.

The meeting was set on the very day that Eva sought out Sherlock. Which meant Milverton was probably eager to get his payout. Around six in the evening, he and Eva arrived at the building that housed Milverton's posh Canary Wharf flat. It was actually one of a number of properties under Milverton's name, who had apparently built a sizable nest egg over a long career.

It was not the penthouse flat, but close enough to the top that it probably cost extra anyway. As soon as they were let into the flat by Milverton himself, Sherlock could see this was not a regularly lived in flat. It was too clean, like something lifted in its entirety from an interior design magazine. He knew then that they weren't going to find any of Milverton's blackmail material here.

Milverton had changed little from when Sherlock stalked him for that week after his fall from Bart's. He was an older man in his fifties, relying mainly on his tailor to hide the bit of extra bulk in his mid-section. He wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that Sherlock knew for certain were fake. It was a disguise to help affect the air of someone harmless to the casual observer. He had a habit of taking them off when he was about to get particularly serious. It was dramatic and utterly effective. Not surprising since he made his initial fortune in movies.

"My Lady," Milverton greeted with a note of smarmy condescension and a mock bow. "Welcome to my humble abode."

She sniffed and marched past him without another word. Then Milverton turned his attention to Sherlock, "And you must be Mister Holmes. It's an honor to meet a true hero."

He tried not to let Milverton's words flummox him. The man was definitely mocking him with that smile.

Milverton led them into the living room where Sherlock and Eva sat next to each other on a leather sofa. Milverton took the opposite armchair facing them (the cushion was raised to create the illusion of height; more psychological mind tricks to put his victims at discomfort). When Milverton smiled, it was oily and reminded Sherlock a bit of Moriarty. Now that was new.

"I trust you have my check, my Lady?" He asked.

"No, I don't have that much money."

"Your foundation generates more than a hundred million pounds in grantmaking expenditures a year. Surely, you can spare a measly twenty million quid."

Sherlock butted in at this point. "You said it yourself. The money is in her foundation. Do you think she could take out that much money from a non-profit and no one will notice?"

Milverton shrugged. "That's not my problem, Mister Holmes."

"Your price is unreasonable. Lady Blackwell would be better off leaving her husband to hang in the court of public opinion. She is the one wronged by his infidelity. The courts will see no reason not to rule in her favor for divorce proceedings. He will have to pay her by the end."

Eva remained stony-faced next to him, not betraying any of the anxiety that Sherlock could clearly make out beneath the surface.

"True, but my Lady will pay a much steeper price first. Make no mistake, if this gets out, it will be the end of the Blackwell Foundation. Years ago, you leveraged your husband's popularity as a public figure to build your foundation after that embezzlement scandal your father was caught up in. It was by the grace of his vocal public support that you weathered that storm. People haven't forgotten that. Your foundation will not survive a second scandal. You know that better than anyone, my Lady."

She remained quiet, but her eyes darted nervously around the room.

Sherlock crossed one leg over the other as he coolly regarded the criminal. "Eight million pounds. That will already be a drain on her resources. The price you've named is simply beyond her means. You're not going to get a better offer, Milverton."

Milverton's smile broadened. "I'm well aware of that, but I honestly don't care how you get the money. You could go rob a bank. My price stands."

That should have been enough. The Milverton that Sherlock had acquainted himself with should have taken the offer with a wide grin. Milverton was too greedy to pass over a payout of any sort.

"What you're doing is illogical. Ruining her career will get you nothing. Why not just take the amount she can afford to pay?" Sherlock snapped.

"That's where you're wrong. I will profit from this incident whether or not the Lady pays me. This isn't the only negotiation I'm entertaining at the moment. If I was to make a severe example out of Lady Blackwell, the rest of them may be more open to seeing reason. If that's all for today, I have other meetings this evening." Milverton straightened his suit jacket as he rose to his feet. With a hand waved in the direction of the front door, their dismissal was clear.

This was never about the money. Milverton knew that she was never going to compromise her principles to raise the money. It was a power play, a much more overt one than Irene even played.

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Milverton. If you think I'm leaving before—"

"You are, or I'm calling the cops. You can then try to explain that to the papers on top of the news about your husband. Take my advice, Lady Blackwell. Do your best to come up with the money and this all goes away."

"Mister Holmes!" Eva looked to Sherlock for something.

Loathed as he did to admit to himself, there was not much he could do at present that would be of benefit to his client. Not while Milverton had his advantage well in hand. Sherlock calmly offered his hand to her as he stood. "Allow me to escort you out, Lady."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, and her fingers dug into the back of his hand as he helped her to her feet.

"Good evening, Mister Milverton." It was impossible not to hear the bitterness lacing her words. She swiftly exited the flat without looking back again.

Sherlock lingered for several seconds, but Milverton's rendition of a charming snake held fast. He spun on his heel and was formulating his next move even as he retreated.

Lady Blackwell was waiting by the bank of lifts. Had it not been for her gloves, the world would be able to see just how white her knuckles were. She waited until they were inside the lift before speaking (tight and enraged and scared and frustrated). "That did not go well, Mister Holmes. We could have tried negotiating more."

"It wouldn't have worked. Milverton never intended to collect payment from you. He was intent on making you his shining example from the start. Your downfall will convince the less scrupulous among your social circle to do whatever it takes to keep from meeting the same end."

"Then you're saying there's absolutely nothing I can do. I can go to the police."

Sherlock snorted at the very idea. Lestrade and his team struggled enough, even after given a plethora of physical evidence at a crime scene. The rest of the Met would be especially useless. "You have no evidence. Do you think you're the first of his victims to try and go to the police?" She opened her mouth as if to argue with him, so he cut her off. "You need evidence of his dealings. That's the only way to stop him for good. Give me two days, and I'll have this entire matter resolved."

The lift shuddered as they arrived at the ground floor. Just as the doors slid open, she nodded and agreed, "Two days."

-x-x-x-

TO: John Watson  
 _Breaking into blackmailer's house. Wish you were here. SH_

Even Sherlock was forced to admit it was a childish move, but John was being exceptionally stubborn about seeing his visit with his sister all the way through. After sending the text, he switched his phone to silent mode and pocketed it. His lock pick set weighed heavily in his other pocket as he regarded the two-story across the street.

Charles Milverton owned three pieces of real estate in and around Central London: the flat in Canary Wharf, a second one in Chelsea, and a house in Knightsbridge. Sherlock had already ruled out the Canary Wharf location. Of the latter two, each was outfitted with a state-of-the-art security system and an electronic safe somewhere on the premise.

He had stopped by Milverton's office and charmed the information about the executive's after-hour habits from an enamored PA. Milverton still spent most nights at the house in Knightsbridge. As Milverton was not the sort to let his leverage out of his sight for long, both the hard and soft copies must also be there.

There was also the fact that although both safes were from the same manufacturer, the Knightsbridge model was several thousand pounds more expensive.

But according to Milverton's schedule, he'd be at a fundraiser until well after midnight. Which gave Sherlock a decent buffer of almost three hours to search the house.

CCTV coverage of the surrounding area was solid, but not nearly as heavy as some other parts of the neighborhood. So he was able to approach the house without any trouble and picked the lock on the side door to gain access. As soon as he did, the security device on the wall began beeping. Sherlock had thirty seconds to enter the passcode into the panel, or the system would automatically alert the police. Milverton had not changed his code since Sherlock last followed the man around.

His torch illuminated the way as he made his way through the house. He couldn't risk turning on the main lights and drawing the neighbors' suspicion. He passed a sitting room and then a kitchen, but found nothing suspicious or out of place.

Milverton's study was on far side of the second floor, overlooking the garden instead of the street. The study was nothing like the rest of the house, which was the same designer chic as the Canary Wharf apartment. Judging by the state of the wall paint, it had been renovated within the last two months. The decor was almost Edwardian, all dark paneled wooden floor accented by the white of the walls. Where there should have been a post-modern monstrosity of glass and metal stood a sturdy mahogany writing desk (a restored antique piece from the 1900s).

Curious, because none of this matched what Sherlock knew to be Milverton's taste. John would probably say something inane about changing fashions, but men like Milverton kept astride with current trends. Not blatantly in opposition to them.

The safe was no longer set into the wall. It sat In the bottom cabinet of the shelf behind the desk. He would have limited tries to deduce the combination for the safe, so he turned his attention to the desktop computer first. Sherlock had acquired a virus from a contract that would corrupt all of Milverton's files and destroy other similar files once uploaded into a cloud or other backup source. He doubted that second part would be a concern; the desktop wasn't even connected to the internet because Milverton was paranoid about hackers. No, any digital copies would be on an external hard drive locked in the safe.

Two tries to figure out the computer password. He set his torch down on his desk as he began his investigation into Milverton's file system. There were gigabytes of photos and videos, some were digitized from other sources dating back some twenty or thirty years ago. Then there was the bookkeeping. Milverton kept extensive records of every payoff he had ever received. The spreadsheet only went back about the last five years, but Sherlock was sure he would find books of the same inside the safe.

"You shouldn't be here, Mister Holmes," a sudden voice pierced through the night and the lights overhead came on slowly, flickering before settling in its luminescence.

Sherlock froze, fingers still poised over the keyboard. He had been rather engrossed in studying the spreadsheet, but he should have heard the front door opening and closing, or even the sound of footsteps in the hall. He hadn't noticed anything until Milverton spoke while stepping over the threshold and into the room. That was unacceptable.

"I could say the same for you, Milverton."

He tried to get up when a hand clamped down around each of his shoulders and shoved him roughly back into the seat. The chair underneath buckled a bit from the force, but didn't collapse. One hand trailed across his shoulder and across his neck (finger: thin and long, nails: manicured and painted, conclusion: a woman) as the person moved from behind him to perch on the edge of the table. It was Milverton's PA (name: Ashley Kelly; age: late-twenties; former aspiring model; recovering from an eating disorder, bulimia based on the discoloration of her fingers that she was careful to hide with any number of hand creams), still watching him with the same unnerving hunger (mistook it for lust earlier and subsequently discarded; necessitated further analysis now) he had seen earlier that day.

"Hello there, darling." Her painted lips stretched into a thin and twisted smile. It caused some ancient lizard part of Sherlock's brain to recoil in fear. The instinct was maddening and loathsome. "Don't you usually have that sidekick of yours with you? Where's the good doctor tonight?" Her accent had also changed since he last saw her. It had been RP (1) masking the last visage of her childhood in Ireland earlier this afternoon, but now? General American with just a hint of something Sherlock couldn't put his fingers on (regional: Californian perhaps?).

"Don't just sit there," Milverton snapped. "Go check the rest of the house."

She threw a glare over her shoulders and just vanished. Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession. Had he been drugged at some point and not noticed? But he could hear her calling from down the hall, "Doctor, doctor, come out and play!"

"John isn't here," Sherlock grit his teeth together as he ran through a list of everything he ate (nothing) and drank (coffee this morning and nothing since) that day. "I'm here alone." He added as an afterthought.

"We're clear," Kelly announced as she reappeared directly in Sherlock's line of sight and leaned back against the desk.

The stretch of her muscles as she crossed one leg over the other drew his attention to the gaping laceration cut across her right side. Blood gushed out from between the split flesh with every little movement, staining the torn violet dress she was wearing with a large patch of crimson. The wound was deep but clean, most likely made a large and very sharp kitchen knife. It should hurt—a lot, so much that she shouldn't be standing upright. Sherlock's gaze immediately slid over to Milverton, where he took note of the flecks of red decorating his white shirt. It was blood splatter—Milverton had been standing right next to Kelly when she was stabbed.

Milverton followed Sherlock's attention to his clothing and sighed, put out but ultimately unconcerned for her health, "Your meatsuit is bleeding all over my rug. You should take better care of it."

Sherlock's mobile was ringing. He could feel the vibration through layers of wool and cloth. He was reaching for it when she did something so completely unexpected that it stilled his hand in mid-air.

"It's just a body," Kelly replied nonchalantly as she reached down and inserted a finger into the cut. A squishing sound filled the air as she dug around for a bit, before withdrawing the finger covered in blood. She reached over and smudged some of it over Sherlock's cheek. That primitive hard-wired instinct screamed again and he couldn't silence it. She smiled—brutal, sharp, and shark-like. "I like the cheekbones on this one. I'm going to enjoy carving things into them."

Sherlock lashed out and his fist caught her hard across her face even as she was pulling back. But as he tried to lift himself from the seat, her hand shot forward. It barely grazed his chest and an incredibly strong force threw Sherlock back. The chair crumbled to pieces, bits of wood digging into his back when he hit the floor with a bang. His head caught the edge of a shelf. The blow stunned him completely and knocked the wind out of his chest.

By the time his head finally stopped spinning and he could concentrate on his surroundings again, Milverton was scolding Kelly, "I told you to handle both the merchandise and clientele with care."

"And which one is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Both. He's simply not ripe for the picking yet."

"So what do we do then? We can't just let him go. We just managed to secure Eva Blackwell, he'll get in the way. We should kill him now and be done with it. There'll always be more souls to harvest from other poor suckers."

"Did you forget that we're supposed to be keeping a low profile? The last thing we need is to be leaving a trail of dead bodies. It's bad for business and it will inevitably draw all sorts of unwanted attention. Do you want to get on the radar of some hunter, or worse, Crowley himself? What we're doing isn't exactly regulation."

"What do we do then, Charlie?"

The address was far too informal. Milverton shouldn't have allowed the slip, but he did. Then a long pause as Sherlock fought a bout of nausea to sit up. Blood was trickling down his temple (head wounds always bled a lot).

"You can trade up for the body. He's not your usual type, but it will put us in a good position before we move on to the next stage. They say he's a genius. We can use that to our advantage."

"Not a bad idea, no wonder you're the brains of the operation."

The obvious sarcasm in Milverton's reply was alien. "Yes, it has nothing to do with your complete lack of managerial skills."

"Screw you, Crossroads."

"What are you two blithering about?" The frustration (what was with London nowadays? was there something in the water?) that drove him to snap at them (stupid, unwise when they were threatening to kill him just feet away) only made him feel dizzier and then angrier. "What have you done with Lady Blackwell?"

Two sturdy hands threaded under his armpits and lifted him into the air. At first he thought it felt strange because of his head injury (he was floating...), but no, his feet were barely touching the rug. Sherlock looked down into Kelly's face, who was studying him in return. From this angle, he could also see her abdominal wound widening with the stretch of her arms upward—her skin ripping to further reveal the tissue and muscle beneath. Every breath she took pumped more blood from her severed blood vessels to the wound's surface—glistening and wet.

It was fascinating.

It was unnatural.

"What are you?" Sherlock's words were almost a whisper.

"And he's finally asking the right question. I do love watching you mortals work us out for the first time. Pretty slow for a supposed genius though, but you'll do. Got anything to say to Mr. Holmes before it's lights out, Charlie?"

"Be my guest and jump him, my dear. I need a change if I'm to return to the party." Milverton waved a hand dismissively before leaving the room.

She licked her blood-red lips, eyes tracing slowly over every contour of his body. "My pleasure." She backed him against the shelf before clamping one hand around his mandible and squeezing. "Now open up, pretty, I'd hate to have to break you before I got a chance to wear you." Another firm squeeze forced his mouth ajar and she smiled. She lifted the other hand to caress his cheek ever so softly. "I'd say that this won't hurt, but I'm often told I'm a lying bitch."

His phone was ringing again. Sherlock was sure it was John calling. His fingers twitched. He wanted to reach for his mobile, but his hands were pinned to the shelf like the rest of his body.

_JohnJohnJohn._

Up close, he could see that her pupils weren't just dilated. Black devoured the entirety of her eyes, from the pupil to the iris to the sclera. Her breath played across his lips as she closed the distance between their faces. An inhuman screech left her mouth as her jaws fell open and a cloud of black smoke oozed forth. Sherlock tried to recoil back, but her grip held him firmly in place. He struggled harder when the smoke crawled (really the only way to describe it, it felt like thousands and thousands of tiny pinpricks) in through his mouth and nostrils. The oily blackness slithering down his throat was foul, tasting like rotten eggs and decay.

Everything burned, and Sherlock was choking and drowning.

And none of this made any sense.

_Stay awake. Stay awake._

But unconsciousness gripped him hard and he slipped into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) RP = [Received Pronunctiation](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Received_Pronunciation)


	11. Easter Sunday I (Me, myself, and the demon in charge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is no stranger to seemingly untenable situations. But this? This may be beyond even him.

John sighed as his call rang out again.

Sherlock wasn't answering his phone.

Not surprising, but still annoying as hell. He opened up to the last text message he received almost an hour ago. Since then, he had tried calling his friend five times. He wondered if he should give Lestrade a heads up, in case Sherlock ended up arrested for whatever madcap scheme he was pulling.

A hand snaked over his shoulders and plucked his phone right out of his hand. "Worried about your boyfriend?" Harry asked. Her eyes darted back and forth across the screen as she read the message. By the end, she wrinkled her nose and asked, "Is he serious?"

John sighed. "Sherlock? Always."

She handed him back his phone—still the same one she gave him all those years ago. Sherlock was forever bugging him to upgrade to a newer model, but his current one still functioned and that was good enough for John. (He would also never tell Sherlock about the sentimentality attached to the phone—it was irrevocably tied to his first meeting with Sherlock.)

"I don't know how you can live with that madman." Harry shook her head in wonderment.

"How'd you manage to find Jenny? Devout Catholic, a lesbian, and completely out of your league." He shot back. It was always strange to rediscover these moments of rapport during Harry's seldom tangos with sobriety.

"You do know those things aren't mutually exclusive. Don't blame me just because your gay-dar is rubbish." But Harry was glancing anxiously at Jenny in the other room. Her fingers twitched and spasmed, as if she was itching for something. The sight caused John's heart to plummet.

"You can't hide this from her forever," he pointed out.

"We were doing so well not talking about it, Johnny. Why'd you have to ruin it?"

Harry's problems with alcohol were forever tied in with her relationship problems. John didn't specialized in psychiatry, but he had a strong feeling that it stemmed from the way she self-medicated in her teenage years. Being a gay teenager was never easy, especially when living in one of the smaller villages outside Chelmsford's main urban area. Harry had been constantly teased, bullied, talked down to by well-meaning but ultimately clueless adults. Their parents, completely heterosexual, did their best, but they made mistakes more often than not.

When things were going well, Harry could be perfectly lovely. A bit bull-headed (it's what made her a good solicitor), but fierce in her love. The problem was the fights and insecurities that most couples worked through together; those paralyzed Harry and she would take to drinking again like a fish to water. It made for a terrible cycle of self-fulfilling prophecies, because the drinking never fixed anything.

It just made Harry withdraw more.

It made her nasty and hurtful.

It made her leave wonderful women like Clara (or Susan or Emily or Sayma), but not before Harry wrung them dry first.

Then Harry would be forced to clean herself up, in spite of the flaming wreckage, to keep her job at the firm. She'd go back to being her lovely self, find a new relationship, and start the process anew.

John had hoped that Clara was the one. She had lasted far longer than any of Harry's other partners, none of whom had come remotely close to marriage. But Clara wanted kids, Harry didn't, and the rest was history...

John couldn't bear to see another burn out over Harry. "She has a right to know," he insisted.

She narrowed her eyes. "What about you, still dating every available woman in London so your flatmate won't notice you're head over heels for him? Or have you moved onto men too? I saw the comments about that Victor bloke on your blog."

He used to be able to brush off jabs like that. Because he hadn't been in love with Sherlock Holmes then. Or if he was, he hadn't been aware of that little fact. They were a lot harder to dismiss in light of his personal admission to himself. "Leave it. This isn't about me."

She grabbed his elbow to prevent him leaving, but her grip was so tight that her nails dug into his skin. "You can't tell her. Please, John. You can't." Panic was written into every line and wrinkle on her face. The desperation was worse; it oozed from every pore. The bargaining didn't usually surface this early in the course, and it was worrying.

Telling would quicken the pace toward the inevitable and destructive end. It was the last thing John wanted to do to either his sister and Jenny.

He laid a gentle hand over hers, petting in hopes of soothing her agitation. "I promise. I'm not going to tell. Harry, you need to talk to someone though, a professional. You need help."

"Thank you." Harry's relief was palpable. "And thank you for coming this weekend. It means alot to both of us."

Truth be told, John figured some time away from Sherlock would do him good. He was still raw from the ordeal with Victor, and while Sherlock hadn't been avoiding him per se, the detective had been more distant since Victor left. It broke John's heart a little. Because no matter what Sherlock said, it looked a hell of a lot like his flatmate was missing Victor. So the time and space away was supposed to be a good thing. Except Sherlock had thrown a fit when he found out John was going away and now there was his attempts to lure John home early.

He really wished he knew what was going on inside Sherlock's head.

He gave his phone one last glance before allowing Harry to drag him back inside.

-x-x-x-

When Sherlock awoke again, the world felt distant and removed in a way he hadn't experienced in years. Recreational morphine use had been the culprit then. Now? When his vision finally focused, the blurry edge to his perception refused to dissipate and it painted the world with a dreamlike quality. He was still in Milverton's study, but now seated on the couch facing the desk. His mobile was in hand, and his fingers moved automatically to type a message to John.

_Stop worrying. I'm fine. SH_

When he tacked his initials to the end of the sentence, it didn't feel like the well-honed reflex the action should have been. It was deliberate, and punctuated with hesitation beforehand. He tried to delete the text he had composed. Because he wasn't fine. And John needed to come home soon. His hands refused him and that was when he realized he couldn't get his body to obey any of his commands.

The digital clock in the screen's corner claimed it was after midnight. Somehow, Sherlock had lost over two hours.

There was the sensation of the muscles around his lips pulling tight into a smirk, but none of it had been Sherlock's intention. Nor was it his intention to hit the send button and chuckle to himself.

"I know you're awake. I can feel you scratching around in there." The sound of his voice giving life to words he never planned for was odd—no, beyond odd. Even more so when he sounded American of all things.

His head was turned and his gaze directed to the body crumpled in a heap on the ground. Ashley Kelly laid in a dried puddle of blood—unmoving, unresponsive, and dead. The body had been moved, dragged out from behind the desk and dumped at the foot of the couch. His body leaned forward and ran a hand through her tangled hair. He could still feel the silken strands, even if it felt like he was touching it through a layer of wool first.

Sherlock tried to pull his hand back, but it gripped the hair harder and ripped strands out of the scalp instead. Every other command he sent to his other limbs was met with unrelenting resistance. They were impossibly heavy until they started moving of their own volition. Sherlock was forced to admit he had lost control.

He, but not actually him, started speaking again, "Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm in charge of the show now. Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Sherlock remembered the dark smoke from before he blacked out. He remembered the pain wracking his body until it felt like every nerve ending was flayed raw. He remembered the soul-crushing presence slipping under his skin. It was a parasite.

Not-himself laughed quietly again. "Still haven't quite worked it out yet, have you? It's really simple. Honey, I'm a demon."

Sherlock wanted to shake his head in disbelief. That didn't make sense. The existence of demons (based on what little knowledge he'd bothered to retain about the concept) presupposed the existence of other metaphysical concepts for which there has never been evidence of: such as hell, or heaven, or angels. Then there were the greater implications of entities like God or the devil. Though it wasn't impossible to divorce demons from their wider Judeo-Christian context, it was difficult. His Catholic upbringing (as lax as it was) made it something not easily discarded.

"Oh, it's all true. God's a dick, the angels are even bigger douchebags, and Lucifer is the father of demons. But he's in the Cage now, so you won't have to worry about him. You mortals got about half of it right at best." The so-called demon brought Sherlock's body to his feet and pocketed the phone even as it buzzed in notification of new messages. "Now be a good boy. You might live long enough to see your doctor boyfriend if you do."

As they moved through the house, Sherlock could feel his limbs swing wide arcs through the air. Every movement was ungainly, as if he was staggering around in a drunken stupor. Then he realized it was because the demon was unused to the particularities of his body. It walked him like it was used to a body with a much lower center of gravity.

By the time they reached the front door, their movements were significantly more coordinated even though it still walked with a bit of an exaggerated hip wiggle. Milverton came through the door in his ruffled but clean shirt, stinking of whiskey. He dropped his car keys into a tray, so he had just returned from the party once more.

Milverton gave Sherlock a long look up and down his body. "On your way out?"

"You know it, Charlie. Places to be, people to see." The demon controlling him replied sunnily.

Milverton gave him another hard glare before continuing, "Remember what we talked about, Constance. We must maintain a low profile. Avoid arousing any suspicion."

The demon named Constance heaved a mock salute and sauntered out of the house. Neither demons gave each other one last glance as they passed one another across the threshold. The night air was cool, but Sherlock could only feel the faintest hint of a chill. A heavy fog descended over his dulled senses.

"Sorry, Sherlock, this next part is only for those in the know. But we'll play again once I'm done with business." Constance promised.

Then Sherlock's world went dark again.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock was a cerebral creature; but without any input or simulation, being trapped in his head was nothing short of hell itself. He felt much like that proverbial hamster spinning in its wheel and never getting anywhere. The demon kept him cut off from the world for what might have been only hours, but felt like days. Sometimes, a image or feeling would pierce through the heavy veil covering his consciousness: like the demon's ecstatic bloodlust or a view of Lady Blackwell's unconscious and bound body from above.

Awareness finally returned to Sherlock in fits and starts: a glimpse of a familiar black door and brass numbers, the stagnant smell that indicated no one had been in the building for a while, pinstripes of early morning light filtered through the window, and the sounds of the third and eleventh step creaking beneath his feet. At the flat's door, Sherlock realized something before the demon.

Mycroft was here.

For once, Sherlock was glad for his brother's meddlesome nature. If anyone was going to notice that something was wrong, it would be Mycroft.

"Get out, Mycroft." The demon declared as it strolled into the room. It sounded like Sherlock, losing all previous traces of its original horrendous accent.

Constance drew his body straighter and rolled the shoulders back. The stance felt familiar, because it was Sherlock's regular posture when dealing with his older brother. That was when he knew that the demon didn't mean to just use his body, but play the part convincingly as well.

Mycroft, seated in John's armchair and ready with a full tea service, looked up at Sherlock towering over him and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Really, Sherlock, what have you been getting up to?"

The demon glanced up at the mirror over the mantle, and Sherlock saw he was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. "None of your business, as usual."

Constance steered the body in the direction of the bedroom, but was stopped when Mycroft stuck his umbrella out and used the tip to push Sherlock's body in the direction of his armchair.

"Sit," his brother commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

The demon obeyed, but made sure to pout and sulk for good measure. It folded Sherlock's body into the armchair and glared as Mycroft poured them each a cup of tea. Constance made no effort to reach for the cup pushed in its direction, causing Mycroft to sigh with familiar resignation. Sherlock realized with a sinking feeling that Mycroft might be falling for the demon's act.

"I'm not going home for Easter. Don't waste your breath." The demon declared after watching Mycroft take a few sips.

Of course, the demon would be able to play at being Sherlock. It could hear and read Sherlock's every thought. Even now, he could feel it digging around his head for the appropriate reaction and behaviors.

"We both know that old argument will go nowhere. I'm here to talk about your meeting with Charles Milverton last night."

Constance froze at the mention of its partner's name. Sherlock was unprepared for the sudden barrage of solutions the demon was considering. All of which were nauseatingly graphic and bloody. Sherlock had seen a lot of violent crime scenes in his time, but even he had to admit nothing as creative as what this demon was imagining now. Mycroft should damn well pray to any deity listening that Constance remembered Milverton's earlier warning. But Sherlock did his best to to impress upon the demon that killing Mycroft would definitely draw unwanted attention in their direction.

The imagined scenarios stopped, but the remnants of Constance's bloodlust left Sherlock feeling ill.

"Can't you keep your fat nose out my business?" Constance sneered with Sherlock's thin lips.

Mycroft remained unimpressed. "What concerns me is that you took all that trouble to break into his house unnoticed and then walked out the front door in full view of CCTVs hours later. You and I both know what Milverton really does for a living."

"Blackmail."

"Indeed. I need you to answer me honestly, Sherlock. Does Milverton have something on you?" Mycroft's face was completely impassive, but both Sherlock and the demon could sense the uneasiness he hid.

The telltale pressure of the demon digging through Sherlock's memories increased. It was almost unbearable, like his head was being squeezed in a vice grip.

"What is it that you're so worried about coming to light? The incident in Belfast or maybe what happened in Tokyo?" Sherlock could feel Constance's glee bleeding through. Under any other circumstance, Sherlock might have reveled the opportunity to make Mycroft uneasy. But now? All he wanted was for Mycroft to catch the demon's scent and realize that Sherlock was very much not in control anymore.

His brother's growing grimace was a sure signal that he hadn't noticed anything amiss. "This is no time to be joking. There will be serious repercussions if the truth about what you did to hunt down Moriarty's network goes public. I will not be able to protect you from them."

Sherlock had wondered exactly how much Mycroft had figured out about his time away. They were not times he liked to think about, preferring to lock them away in a room in the less frequented parts of his Mind Palace and throw away the key. But the demon ripped the door off its hinges and started dragging them out once more.

Through the pain of Constance searching through his head, Sherlock felt a different set of pressure alleviate. He wiggled his right hand entirely of his own volition. But as soon as he tried tapping out SOS in Morse code against the chair's arm, Constance grabbed the hand with the other one and squeezed. The meager control Sherlock managed to assert slipped away like grains of sand sliding through fingers.

"Stop that," Constance hissed impossibly quietly as a warning to Sherlock. "Big brother can't help you."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes at him. "Roll up your sleeves."

He felt the demon roll his eyes before obeying. Internally, Sherlock raged. Leave it to Mycroft to suspect him of being high first. The track marks scarring the crook of his elbows were years old—almost a decade now. Mycroft relaxed his grip around his umbrella when he saw there were no fresh injection sites.

Constance used Sherlock's mouth to smirk and nettle, "You worry too much. Relax, Mycroft, I'm clean and Milverton wasn't trying to blackmail me. I was hired by a client to negotiate on her behalf. I trust that you would never let my secrets leak—again."

Observation one: Demons (or at least this one) couldn't resist the temptation to discomfort others.

Observation two: It said something about Sherlock's ability to be cruel when the demon's sadistic streak was indistinguishable from his more prickly moments.

Mycroft's smile was thin-lipped and tight. So his brother did still regret what happened with Moriarty. "Then you know about Milverton's recent change in tactics. He's made some powerful enemies as a result. Use the utmost care and discretion, Sherlock, lest they become your enemies as well."

"Noted, now leave. I have a full day ahead of me." Constance climbed out of the seat and reached for his violin. Sherlock vowed then to somehow break the demon's hand for touching it. The demon must have heard his thought, because it tuned one of the strings too tightly and coaxed a wailing note from the instrument.

If this was what he sounded like from an outsider's perspective, no wonder John and Mrs. Hudson complained all the time.

Mycroft stood, and Sherlock found himself wishing his brother would stay with him for the first time since he was twelve. Why couldn't Mycroft see there was something off? And if Mycroft couldn't, what chance did the rest of the world stand?

He could sense his brother's scrutinizing stare burning into his back. The demon continued to ignore Mycroft in a stunning facsimile of Sherlock's usual behavior. After a moment, the other man sighed heavily and moved toward the exit.

No! Dammit, Mycroft. Don't go!

"Do give Mummy my best." The demon called after Mycroft and slammed the door closed. It waited until the door downstairs shut before turning to fully face the mantle mirror. The smile on his lips was too full and with a blink, his eyes were entirely black. "It's just you and me now, Sherlock. Why don't we dig through all those terrible secrets you're so eager to keep from dear old John?"

-x-x-x-

2 Missed Calls  
Mycroft Holmes               9:31AM  
Mycroft Holmes               10:06AM

_Doctor Watson, the purpose of a mobile phone is to allow you to take calls from anywhere._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

I was in church for Christ's sake.

_Perhaps it would be better if we talked over the phone._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

No way, not when I know how much this annoys you. So what's going on?

_I would advise you to come home early if possible._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

What did he do now?

_Nothing. But Sherlock was not quite himself when I visited._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

What do you mean?

_He fidgeted. Told me to wish Mummy well when I left._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

What's so unusual about that?

_Surely you picked up on Sherlock's fraught relationship with our mother over the Christmas holidays._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

 

[Pause]

[Pause]

[Pause]

Do you think it's drugs?

_No. But I will have surveillance continue to monitor him._   
_Mycroft Holmes_

You still have us under surveillance? I thought that stopped months ago.

 

[Pause]

_That waitress flirting with you is hoping to use you to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. She's not "over him."_

Fucking hell, don't text me again.

 _Do keep an eye on Sherlock_ _then._  
 _Mycroft Holmes_

-x-x-x-

Sherlock and the demon (Sherlock tried not to think about it by its name, made it seem human almost) may be sharing the same headspace, but the exchange of information and knowledge between them was one-sided. It could easily access all of Sherlock's memories and thoughts. Even in its most distracted moments, it was near impossible for Sherlock to read the demon in return. His attempts did not escape the demon's notice, who then mocked him loudly for his failures. At best, he could manage errant twitches of his body parts in response to half-aborted commands from his brain.

It meant that Sherlock was a trapped, mute, and captive audience to whatever twisted things the demon chose to share with him. He had never felt more helpless in his life, and found his own morbid thoughts cycling between despondent and murderous.

He'd rather die than spend the rest of his days as a prisoner in his own head.

The demon spent the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon rummaging through Sherlock's belonging. Constance turned the flat upside down and contaminated all his experiments. The worse part was its continually running commentary about everything from Sherlock's wardrobe ("Very chic") to the contents/lack therefore of their cupboards ("Are you sure you're human?").

His only blessing was that Constance bored easily and flitted from subject to subject like a hyperactive hummingbird.

But then it turned its attention to John's room and the man himself... It had saved John's bedroom for last. The demon picked up the crystal ashtray off John's nightstand and chuckled, "Isn't that darling? He kept it."

Sherlock snarled internally. John had nothing to do with this.

"You're very protective of your roommate. Does diddly though, seeing as he lives with you and you do nothing but expose him to danger."

He continued to fume.

"If he never met you, he'd probably be perfectly safe and content in his boring, little life. Maybe settled in a relationship with the likes of Mary," it pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand and peeked in. "Or Victor, seeing as your boy swings both ways."

Sherlock had been more than happy to not think about Victor over the last few weeks.

The demon straightened suddenly, "Did you know you're way more jealous of Victor than you are of Mary? You're so envious that I can almost taste the green. Not surprising, since you want John for yourself."

Did this thing ever tire of hearing its own voice?

"I like you, Sherlock. You're not bad for a mortal. I can dig the grey and self-serving amorality, the body parts in the fridge, and the fact you're already kind of a grade-A asshole. I barely have to flex my acting muscle to pretend being you. Although my favorite part is the brutality. Remember what you did to that guy hiding in the Krkonoše? " it whistled and sounded impressed even. (Sherlock's head was filled to the brim with a man's scream with a tangy acidic note teasing at his olfactory memory.) "Now that was a thing of beauty, and I do mean that as a compliment."

"I'm only trying to help. This pining bit of yours is starting to get ridiculous. _Oh, I'll hurt him. I'll never be able to give him what he wants. I'm no good for him. It'll destroy us._ Blah blah blah! Tedious, as you would say. It's not like you want to marry the guy. Jump his bone, fuck your Johnny boy. It's really not that hard. Hell, I'll even do you the favor of jumping him before I leave you. I guarantee he won't say no."

"Can't" was actually the operative word. The carnal thoughts running through its mind (and subsequently shared with Sherlock) seemed surreal at first. But they also quickly turned violent, and Sherlock tried to concentrate on what he could see of John's room though the demon's eyes.

"I do love a man in a uniform," it muttered more to itself than Sherlock.

They lapsed into those moments of disquieting silence, where the demon finally shut its (his) mouth and the inside of Sherlock's head was blank save for his own frantic thoughts. These were rare and unwelcome, because the only thing worse than the demon incessant chattering was the lack of it. Without the words, Sherlock had nothing to work with.

When his mobile rang minutes later, Constance picked up in the middle of the first ring. "Sherlock Holmes," it answered but not quite completely in character yet—in an accent still edging closer to American than English.

"Sherlock, is that you?" Lestrade's confused voice greeted them over the phone.

It sighed, sounding exasperated and put-upon. "What do you want, Lestrade?"

"I have a crime scene that I was hoping you could take a look at."

"How many dead?" The glee in the demon's words was genuine. Surely, Lestrade would be able to tell that much.

"God willing, none at all. Will you come?"

"Text me the address," and the demon rang off. "Good news, Sherlock, we have a case!"

The location that Lestrade texted turned out to be a mansion at the edge of the Greater London area. The demon knew exactly where it was, suggesting that it had been there before. Sherlock also knew the mansion from his research after making Lady Blackwell's acquaintance. The house had been in the Blackwell family for generations, dating further back than the manor that Mummy presently owned. Curtains were drawn over every window on the first floor, but the number of shadows moving behind the lace suggested a great many people moving about inside. Two police constables stood at guard on either side of the front door, each giving Sherlock just the briefest glance when he went in.

The interior of the house was overrun with police officers and SOCOs. He felt the demon wrinkle his nose in disdain ( _look at all these rats crawling around, disgusting_ ). Someone pointed them in the direction of the kitchen on the far side of the house. Passing the dining room, Sherlock recognized Scotland Yard's Hostage and Crisis Negotiation team setting up their equipment. Crime scene tape stretched across the open doorway leading into a large and modern kitchen with polished granite counter-tops and chrome appliances.

Lestrade (dark circles under his eyes; dressed in his Sunday Best; had been with his ex-wife and children when called away to work) waved him closer.

The scene was already processed, leaving little tags and stands of numbers littered around the mess of broken china, fallen cookware, and spilled blood measured in pints. He felt his nostrils flare—filling with the scent of (fresh) blood—and a chill (thrill) raced down his spine. The demon quickly glanced toward the knife stand still upright on a far counter, with each blade slotted into its appropriate spot. One of them must have been the knife that nearly gutted Ashley Kelly's body.

"You allowed Anderson to touch the evidence?!" it asked Lestrade in an outraged tone.

"It's his job, Sherlock. Where's John?"

The demon grunted noncommittally and Lestrade dropped the subject in favor of the matter at hand. "Lady Eva Blackwell, the current director of the Blackwell Foundation, was kidnapped sometime in the last twelve hours. We're still trying to construct a timeline of her movements from the previous day. This morning, her husband came home to find the kitchen like this. Shortly after he called us, he received a ransom call demanding ten million pounds for the safe return of Lady Blackwell."

"Where was the husband?" The demon asked as he swooped down to idly examine a blood spot.

"He was in Rotterdam since Friday. We've confirmed his alibi. A number of people saw him at a charity dinner until well after midnight. We have video of him checking out of his hotel early this morning."

"Why call me here at all?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "The kidnappers didn't offer proof of life when they first called. With this much blood on the scene, Lady Blackwell could already be dead or in need of immediate medical attention to save her life. Anything you can give us to help locate her the sooner, the better."

The demon straightened up and declared, "It's not her blood."

Which was true. Sherlock hadn't expected the demon to know or tell Lestrade though, which set off internal alarm bells. For one thing, the blood splatter wasn't much of a pattern at all. Someone had just emptied a container over the floor and tossed the rest around haphazardly. The blood would belong to someone other than Lady Blackwell—probably multiple people's stolen from a NHS blood bank. The most telling part was the lack of bloodied footprints and drag marks. It meant that the "crime scene" had been staged. It was meant to hide the real bits of physical evidence (or lack therefore) from Lady Blackwell's kidnapping. Taking into account what he knew now about demons and their abilities, Lady Blackwell had been easily taken without too much struggle.

But why? What did Milverton and its partner have to gain from this?

Constance continued, "You'll find that the blood belongs to multiple persons, but not Lady Blackwell."

Lestrade's expression was a cross between confusion and aggravation, but before he could ask his questions, a detective sergeant (not Donovan, who was on vacation) strolled up to them and handed the DI a handful of printouts. The demon's attention wandered in the meanwhile, but out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could make out the tight worry now settling over Lestrade's face.

"Sherlock, why didn't you say anything before?" He hissed and almost threw the printouts at Sherlock.

They were screenshots from CCTV footage, each meticulously time-stamped. Several were of Lady Blackwell at 221B's front steps before Sherlock in his dressing gown joined her at the open door. Then were more of them entering and exiting the Canary Wharf apartment building later in the evening.

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"Not relevant?" Lestrade gaped with both anger and disbelief. "As far as we can tell, you may be the last person to have been in contact with her before she went missing. And you don't think it's relevant. You must have known who this was about as soon as you walked through that door, and you chose not to tell me right away. This isn't good. You need to account for your whereabouts last night, and you need to tell us what you were doing with Lady Blackwell. Call John here. Now."

"John cannot account for my whereabouts," the demon narrowed his eyes in a good approximation of Sherlock's usual disdain. "You suspect I have something to do with her disappearance."

Lestrade looked as if someone had just punched him and told him his children had died in a tragic accident. "No! No!"

Constance continued; its delight over tormenting Lestrade washed over Sherlock. "You doubt me like the last kidnapping case I worked."

"No, Sherlock! Just tell us so we can rule you out. You know standard procedure as much as you like to ignore it."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Sherlock!"

The demon turned and walked away, dodging around the sergeant that tried to stop them. "I don't need to prove myself to you, Lestrade. If you don't want my help, I'll be going." Its escape route was intercepted by the sudden appearance of Sir Gareth Kingston though.

Then at the height of his career, Gareth Kingston had married Lady Eva Blackwell over a quarter of a century ago. Kingston was and remained one of Great Britain's most successful Olympian athletes (four gold medals and one silver in athletics) of all time (1). Now into his fifties, he spent most of his time coaching the next generation of athletes and hanging as eye candy off Lady Blackwell's arm at various charity functions. Age made him distinguished looking, so it was not hard to see how he was pulling women ten, fifteen years his junior.

Sherlock wasn't the only one surprised when Kingston took his hand. The demon pulled away immediately to put some distance between them.

Kingston's eyes were wet with tears. "Mister Holmes, will you please help me find my wife? She must be in such terrible danger!"

On the surface, Kingston looked every bit the distressed spouse. To the trained eye though, he was overacting the part (eye contact exaggeratedly steady and a stiff body to overcompensate for possible tells). Oily residue on his sleeve cuff and pocket square indicated the tears were faked. Vicks vapor rub is the irritant of choice for most amateur actors, but the sharp menthol scent was absent.

Lestrade stepped in the way when Kingston tried to advance again. "I'm afraid Sherlock isn't cleared to work this case."

Kingston relaxed visibly in response to Lestrade.

Lestrade gently guided the husband back and handed him off to another officer. "You need to stay with the negotiation unit, Mister Kingston. The kidnappers could call again at any moment."

As Kingston was led away, he couldn't resist peering back at Sherlock. He wasn't just acting; he was genuinely worried about Sherlock's involvement. It meant he knew something about his wife's kidnapping—had something to do with it despite his alibi. Had Milverton also gone ahead and blackmailed Kingston independently of Lady Blackwell? Did that drive Kingston to stage her kidnapping and ransom to meet Milverton's price?

The demon chuckled softly at his thoughts, causing a nearby constable to shift back in fear and scurry away. "You're thinking too small, Sherlock. Too small."

-x-x-x-

1 Missed Call  
Gregory Lestrade                15:18PM

_Where are you?_

I'm in Birmingham for the weekend. Is Sherlock okay?

 _He's safe._ _I don't know how long I can keep him out of trouble if he doesn't cooperate._

 _His client was kidnapped last night and is being held for ransom._ _He was the last person to see her before she was taken._

_He refuses to account for his location at any time last night._

You can't honestly be suggesting that Sherlock had anything to do with it. We've done this before.

_I believe in Sherlock, but I'm not his problem. It's my superiors that matter, and they haven't forgotten how much trouble Sherlock's caused them._

_Even if Sherlock can't be arrested, they'll still try to make life hell for him until this is resolved._

I'll catch the first train back to London. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid until then.

-x-x-x-

Lestrade sent them home immediately after the ensuing argument over the demon refusing to alibi themselves out and refusing to reveal what case Lady Blackwell had hired him for. Sherlock had no idea what Constance was trying to accomplish by casting them in a suspicious light, but he was sure it wasn't for good reasons.

His phone had also been ringing non-stop with calls and text notifications since they left Blackwell's home. Most infuriating of all was the demon's refusal to check anything on the phone. Only after they returned to 221B almost two hours later did Constance pull out the mobile.

Three missed calls and several texts, all from John.

_Answer your phone._

_Why won't you tell Greg where you've been? This isn't good._

_Just tell him._

_You win, I'm on my way home._

_Catching the train now._

_My train just pulled into the station. I'll be at the flat in 15 minutes._

The last message was timestamped almost twenty minutes ago. John had underestimated for traffic, but he was going to be back any moment now.

The front door opened and slammed shut with a deafening thud. It sounded like the final snap of a guillotine blade against the chopping board. John's footsteps in the stairwell (dragging, he was tired and off-guard) echoed.

"I believe your flatmate is finally home." The demon declared. Sherlock could feel the dual phantom sensation of a smirk gracing his lips and the words rumbling in his throat. His body was moving against his will and out of his control. "I bet he screams so very prettily. Why don't we find out?"

Despite what others may think about him, Sherlock was much more well-acquainted with fear than he would have liked. He knew what it was like for his hands to become clammy, for sweat to run down his back and pool in the small of it, and for his breathing (boring, so boring, until he was no longer doing it for himself) to become labored.

And because his body was no longer his own (it was thrumming with excitement; aroused even), Sherlock imagined that the fear only had few places to settle in: his shriveled soul, his metaphorical heart, or some other metaphysical component that necessitated re-evaluation in light of new evidence.

He thought back to those moments of terror in recent years (all centered around John, always John): the Pool and John wrapped in Semtex, the CIA agent's gun muzzle pressed at the base of John's skull and the demand for a code he didn't know yet, and John reappearing in the line of Moran's scope when he was supposed to be with Mrs. Hudson. But nothing could compare to the mindless fear that gripped him. In those instances, his mind continued to race, screeching and scrambling to concoct a solution that allow them to cheat death one more time. But now? His precious analytical mind whited out, overcome with images of the demon's pleasure as it raped, beat, and skinned his partner.

It laughed quietly to itself and him when Sherlock threatened a fate worse than death for the demon if it should harm even a hair on John's hair. "You're bluffing," it sangsong, causing Sherlock's voice to hit pitches and notes never attempted before. "You can't stop me."

That was the truth—the absolute and inescapable truth.

Sherlock once told Irene Adler: "I don't beg."

But he was begging now, bargaining with and screaming at the creature in control of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Britain's actual and current Olympian athlete with the most gold medals is Chris Hoy. He is is a six-time Olympic champion and a winner of a total of seven Olympic Games medals, six gold and one silver. Hoy is also the most successful Olympic cyclist of all time. At least all of this is true according to Wikipedia.


	12. Easter Sunday II (Together, they can never break us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't know how or when that demon got into his friend, but he's going to save Sherlock no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Consent issues (dub-con vibes), threats of rape, nothing graphic/explicit but warning just to be safe

John deposited his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called.

No reply, but he could hear movement from the floor above. He scrubbed one hand tiredly over his mouth, before mustering his strength to climb the stairs and face his eccentric (and frankly mad) friend. With the way his phone had been ringing off the hook all day, John anticipated neither a pleasant nor an easygoing evening.

There were several good signs. The building appeared intact (almost within the first hour after he initially left, Sherlock had texted a list of experiments with potentially explosive ingredients; John couldn't veto them all fast enough). No smoke or the scent of burning things. Everything was very quiet and very still.

As he neared the landing, he caught the faint whisper of words. Despite himself, John smiled. Was Sherlock still trying to converse with him when he was out of the room? Had Sherlock continued that habit when he traveled the world over? John would never ask. He couldn't; it raised a number of embarrassing questions. But the possibility that Sherlock may have carried on to a John possibly continents away warmed his heart.

"Sherlock, what have you done now? First, Mycroft and then Greg."

Whatever John had expected, it wasn't the utterly vulnerable and desperate expression on Sherlock's face (the likes of which he hadn't seen since Baskerville).

"What's wrong?" John asked, not bothering to hide his growing concern.

"John." Sherlock finally choked his name out. His body jerked as he made an abortive motion to reach out.

Before he could ask again, Sherlock came flying across the room and pushed John against the flat door, slamming it shut. John stifled the grunt when his back collided against the wood. A dull jolt of pain jostled his spine and injured shoulder. But most of all, Sherlock was an unyielding wall of flesh and muscle pressing against him. Sherlock smelled of damp wool and what John fancied as London itself. The feel and scent stole the air right from John's lungs, even as his pulse jumped and raced like a jackrabbit's.

Sherlock's face was mere centimetres away—the long muscles of his neck straining as he ducked down to John's level. His pale eyes were a breathtaking electric blue today, with all of his considerable attention focused on John. John couldn't fight the full body shudder or the weakening in his knees. Sherlock must have found what he was searching for, because he broke into a smug and toothy grin.

What? John knew not. He didn't dare to hope.

Sherlock didn't want him—couldn't possibly want him.

A large warm hand cupped his cheek and Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone. "My dear John," he muttered softly.

Sherlock stole whatever words and sense that remained by pushing his lips firmly against John. The kiss was soft and almost thoughtful, but it was enough to jolt John out of his haze. He planted his hands on Sherlock's firm chest and tried to thrust the other man away. He pulled back and his head thunked against the wood—gaping as air struggled to reach his lungs. But Sherlock's arms, caging John on either side, prevented him from disentangling them entirely.

John swallowed convulsively and asked, "What are you doing?"

There was that small crease in between Sherlock's brow, the one that meant he was displeased. "Stop talking."

The hands previously braced next to John's head trailed down and encircled his wrists, tugging each hand off his chest before trapping John's hands against the door. The possessive gesture made the world go fuzzy around the edges. Maybe he had actually met with an accident en route and never made it back to 221B? Maybe this was heaven? (If there were demons, it only seemed fair that the opposite was true as well.) Or this was some vivid coma dream. He had read medical articles about those. No other explanation made sense at this point.

Another shiver coursed through John when he felt Sherlock's hot breath caress his jawline. "Stop thinking, you're not particularly good at it." Sherlock hissed before sealing his lips back over John's again.

Just as John melted into the sensation, Sherlock pressed back more insistently and nudged his mouth open with a swipe of his tongue. The only thing holding John up at this point was the door and Sherlock (who was invading all his senses). That clever tongue curled around his own, compelling him to respond in kind. And John fought back with everything at his disposal (because Sherlock was a battlefield all into himself and John was a soldier), sucking and licking and nipping and hands breaking out of Sherlock's loose hold to grab any body part in reach.

In retaliation, Sherlock dragged his lips across John's jaw and down his neck. Sherlock spent long moments lavishing attention on his bobbing Adam's apple until it left him panting with want. The sensation of a smile against his skin was his only warning before Sherlock bit down and sucked what would become a violent bruise onto his neck. The subsequent spike of lust and arousal swept over him in a heady haze.

He clung harder to Sherlock, never wanting to let go. Yet his mind still rebelled where his body wanted to surrender.

( _A chilly Cornish night and a moon that seemed to swallow the black overhead—wool fisted in his hand—)_

Too good to be real.

_(—a dead man's kiss—a monster's cruel headgame—wasn't real)_

Wasn't real at all.

This must be what it was like when Sherlock put together those crucial pieces to solve his puzzles. All the relevant points of data flashed before his mind's eye: layered under that tangy chemical undertone was the smell of sulphur; Sherlock's warm but bare wrist devoid of his wristwatch; his flatmate's almost pleading expression when he first came in; Mycroft and Lestrade's concern; and a dozen other smaller details that painted a not-quite-right picture.

John tore his mouth away and gasped for air. He was probably telegraphing too much, so his only hope was that the demon didn't already know he was a hunter. "Sherlock," he gasped. "I can't."

In response, the taller man bucked his hips, grinding his erection against John's thigh.

John could only taste bitter bile.

"You want this." Sherlock (no, that demon riding his body) palmed John's half-hard cock through his jeans. "Why stop now?"

John suppressed the urge to throw the demon off—that would anger it or give him away. The demon leaned in again and John's skin crawled. John sent a silent prayer in thanks when he found what he needed—police-issued handcuffs—in the left pocket of Sherlock's coat still draped over the demon. He vowed never to berate Sherlock about pickpocketing Lestrade again. He twisted out of the demon's grip with a move he hadn't used since his army days and shackled Sherlock's hands behind his back.

It flexed its arm in an effort to test the binding, but John already knew that alone wouldn't keep the demon.

It smiled again with Sherlock's face, then speaking with his voice. "John, naughty naughty."

It wasn't even trying anymore. John wanted to hit it.

John whipped out the flask of holy water from the inside pocket of his jacket and splashed the content all over its face. It screeched and reeled back, steam rising from its face in reaction to the holy water. Using his forward momentum, he charged forward and sent them both crashing down into the coffee table. The table shattered underneath them. John rolled away before trying to catch his breath, clawing at his armchair for support when an old unwelcome pain knifed through his leg.

The demon snarled—eyes completely black as it was compelled to reveal its true nature. It tried to reach for him before freezing suddenly and struggled against an invisible force holding it back; its face contorted with confusion.

John took several more ragged breaths before addressing it, "Don't bother, you're sitting on top of a devil's trap." The trap had been laid under the rug months ago when Sherlock was out of the flat. His observant flatmate never noticed because he never cleaned (which was what John was counting on).

It settled back and the black in its eyes receded "You're a hunter." It threw back its head and cackled, "Well, isn't this just a delicious turn of events?"

"Shut up," John snapped. Rage buzzed beneath his skin, like a swarm of angry insects, and tinted everything with the cooper tang.

There was a faraway look in Sherlock's eyes before focusing its attention back to John. "Oh, Sherlock's asking what a hunter is. He has no idea at all! Why, John, I think you've managed to keep a secret from the great Sherlock Holmes." It smiled with Sherlock's lips and teeth, but all the angles and edges seemed unnaturally sharp.

John's pulse hammered away in his ear. It was almost too difficult to hear over the roar of his rushing blood. "I said shut your mouth."

"The two of you are a pair, a friendship rebuilt on a bed of lies. So many lies. You keep the wool pulled over his eyes regarding the true nature of the world; he lies to you about his feelings."

Feelings. Sherlock's feelings for John.

_Demons lie; they lie all the damn time._

"What do you want with Sherlock?" He spat the words out around his grinding teeth, focusing exclusively on Sherlock's face to spot hints of his friend being held captive within.

"Ugh, boring!" It declared in a stunningly good imitation of Sherlock's usual mannerism, but its far-too-wide smile stretched like a rictus across Sherlock's face. "Come on, John, there are so many better things we could be doing instead playing twenty questions. You have me all tied up with nowhere to run." It purred, taking unfair advantage of Sherlock's low baritone and pitching in a way that unmistakably suggested sex. The demon readjusted its position, sitting up and parting legs wider to draw attention to the bulge that hadn't subsided in the least.

It was getting off on tormenting John.

It had absolutely nothing to do with what Sherlock (trapped and no doubt, disgusted) wanted.

John rose to his feet and forced himself into the kitchen, sliding the partition closed behind him. It was probably a mistake to let the demon out of his line of sight, but he couldn't look at Sherlock's face right now. He inspected the science equipment laid out on their kitchen table and selected two of the largest and cleanest Erlenmeyer flasks, before filling them both with water from the tap. From his pocket, he drew the rosary from church earlier and wrapped the string of beads around the neck of both flasks. He kept his voice as low as possible when chanting a familiar Latin blessing.

"Come back, John!" The demon called, using the same exaggerated pronunciation that Sherlock sometimes used when he particularly wanted something. "Don't tell me you don't want a piece of this, I know you're not blind! I can see it as clear as day. Well, that and I picked up a few tricks about reading souls and desires from Charlie. I'm amazed that for the most observant man in London, he completely missed the fact that you want him desperately. He's so worried about other people stealing you away: Victor, Mary, anyone else who even glances your way. Such a jealous and possessive little thing he is. No one must have taught him how to share when he was a kid."

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the demon's words and to concentrate on the prayer.

A blessed moment of silence before the demon started up again, "So, are all British guys as ridiculously repressed as the two of you? Don't be mad, John, I was just trying to help. Otherwise, you idiots would have spent the rest of your stupid, short mortal lives dancing around each other until you're too old and gray to enjoy a good 'shag.' I don't see the problem. Sherlock's gagging for it, guy might finally loosen up if you shove a dick up his ass. I don't mind lying back and thinking of Mother England, but then you had to be a total downer with the whole I'm-a-big-bad-hunter."

John was shaking by the time he finished with the holy water. At the door, he had to double back for the container of salt from the back of the cupboards.

The demon looked up as soon as he re-entered the living room. Its bored expression melted into lust and desperation, baring Sherlock's long neck in seeming submission, it whimpered, "Please, John. I need you. Fuck me."

He hit the demon with a bit more holy water than he meant to. The familiar snarling and thrashing of a demon in agony was a preferable sight to that thing shamming as Sherlock. He was surprised to find how easily he managed to disconnect this creature's suffering from his friend, but there was still the uncomfortable twist deep in gut. "I'll ask you one more time, what do you want with Sherlock?" His words were as steady and heavy as steel.

Black eyes resurfaced as an automatic reaction to the dowsing. "I'm sorry, was the pain supposed to be a turn-off?"

His hand shot out to grasp Sherlock's chin, tilting the head back. Sherlock's lips were swollen and kiss-reddened. John must have stared too long or too hard (he did that to Sherlock—against his friend's will), because those lips quirked up with a knowing smirk. Usually, that smile made John's heart race with excitement, but now it stoked his anger.

John used his finger and palm to pry open the demon's mouth. He never liked doing this, but he needed answers. Was Sherlock specifically targeted? Was there backup on the way that John needed to look out for? He poured a mouthful of liquid into the open orifice and held its head aloft to keep it from spitting out the water. Though, the burning hiss and choked gurgle of pain was incredibly hard to bear.

He reminded himself that holy water didn't hurt the human, just the demon. Sherlock was fine—was going to be fine as soon as John got this thing out of him.

John stepped away from the demon, putting some much needed distance between them. He watched impassively (on the outside at least) as the demon spat the remaining swallows onto the rug. "You are right about one thing: You're not going anywhere. I want some answers first. Then I'm going to send you back to where you belong."

"If you must know, your Sherlock was incidental. He was a convenient meatsuit when I needed a new one." It sneered. "He is nice enough that I was considering taking him on a permanent basis."

He ignored its effort to nettle him. Like suspects in interrogation, it rarely paid to take the demon's bait. "This has something to do with Sherlock's latest case, that blackmail case he was working on. You're somehow involved in that. How?"

"He's right about you," it cooed with a sickeningly patronizing smile. "You are marginally smarter than the rest of these sad sacks of meat. Not too smart though, if you think I'm going to spill the beans. That would spoil all the fun."

John couldn't help himself. He had to be sure. "Sherlock's still in there?"

"Of course! He's listening to every word we're saying. You should have heard him when you first came back; he was so worried about what I might do to you. His threats were some of the most creative ones I've ever heard, and I've been to Hell. It was quite touching considering the sort of person he is. He'd make a brilliant demon someday, don't you think?"

He balked, throwing more holy water across the demon's face. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Sherlock is nothing like you lot."

"You really believe that!" it gave a short bark of laughter as it shook itself like a wet dog. Sherlock's curls were plastered flat against his head from sweat and sanctified water. "Did Sherlock ever tell you about the time he killed a man?"

John froze.

It continued, "Well, more than one man: three men and a woman. You know that technically makes him a serial killer, right? Turns out Sally Donovan may have been right about psychopaths and boredom. If that doesn't get him assigned downstairs, I don't know what will. Well, I can think of a few things." It leered at John with familiar pale eyes, intense gaze sweeping up and down his body.

"They were criminals. Murderers. Not good men. He did it to save people."

"You really are disgustingly loyal, aren't you? So ready to believe in the great Sherlock Holmes. Yeah, they were bad, bad people. Still, he would never have had to kill them if he hadn't sought them out in the first place. Murder is still murder, and murder's a sin, doncha know? To be fair, pretty much all of them backed him into a corner—sorta kill-or-be-killed types of situations. So if you're hard-pressed, you could classify those as self-defense. But they're just the tip of the iceberg: extortion, torture, arson, homemade explosives... The list goes on and on. Your boy's a bonafide criminal mastermind in practice."

"You talk too much," John hissed. He fought the urge to deck the demon, but that would ultimately hurt Sherlock more than it. He clenched his fists and stilled his body against the thrumming tide rising within him.

"Oh, John Watson, look at you, all steel and righteous fury. You have no idea how much that turns him on. Opps, Sherlock didn't want you to know any of that." It snapped its mouth shut with an audible smack. Had its hands been free, it would probably be miming the motion of a zipper across its lips. But the demon didn't stay quiet for long—they never did. "He's just like a puppy, so hung up on having you think the best about him, so desperate to keep you from finding out he's really a monster on the inside like all those things you hunt."

Something in John snapped.

The second flask was filled with salt before its content was poured down the demon's throat. It gagged in an effort to not choke, because John held tight and made sure it drank every last burning drop. When he finally let go and stepped away, the demon fell forward and threw back up some of the holy water. The one thing that demons tended to forget was that once they took a body, they became susceptible to most of the weaknesses too. It rarely mattered in the long term as demons took a hard toll on their bodies, but it didn't mean it couldn't still hurt like hell for them while damage was inflicted on their vessels. John knew that Sherlock would forgive him for this momentary discomfort when it meant they got to watch the demon gasp and heave in pain.

"I'm done playing your games. If there's anything else you want to say before I exorcise you, now would be the time."

It followed John's movements with angry dark eyes while wearing Sherlock's most thunderous expression. The reality of its situation must have sunk in. It knew its expulsion from Sherlock's body was given and inevitable. "You have no idea who you're crossing, hunter."

"Exorcizamus te—"

Its expression transformed into something completely inhuman and its body quivered under strain. "You stupid fuck, I would have fucked you against that door. I bet you would have loved that though. You'd love for him to hold you down and fuck you. You were practically ready to spread your legs and beg for it like a fucking whore."

John sped up over the next lines. His mind whited out of all other thoughts except for the well-rehearsed verses falling from his lips. "Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica—"

The convulsions grew stronger with each Latin word muttered, but the demon continued to spit vitriol like a caged beast. "I wouldn't have been gentle about it. I can hold you in place with just my pinky finger if it wasn't for this fucking trap. I would have just bent you over and fucked your hole without any lube. You could scream and beg all you want, but I wouldn't have stopped. I would have fucked you until I tore your insides to shreds and left you bleeding out on the floor. And you're fooling yourself if you think your precious Sherlock wouldn't have also enjoyed every moment of—"

John's hand moved without thinking, splashing the last of the holy water over the demon's torso. It had been a long time since he felt this sort of detachment from himself, like he was watching his own actions from outside his own body. Intense surgeries had been like this—once; long ago—and then there had been war itself. Now the feeling returned as he watched the demon writhe on the floor while wearing his best friend's skin.

"Ergo Draco Maledicte, Ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias Libertate Servire, Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!"

Sherlock's mouth fell open and an unseen force yanked the demon's smoky black form out. The smoke churned anxiously, writhing against the invisible force binding it before it was dragged down into the floor. John's ears rang and he knew he would be haunted by that agonized screeching tonight (if he could even sleep after all this). Utterly limp, Sherlock fell facedown onto the rug and its charred spots (Mrs. Hudson was going to be furious).

From this distance, it was impossible to tell if Sherlock was still breathing or not. Panic gripped John for long seconds before he could finally shake it off.

He sank to his knees next to Sherlock's prone body and gingerly rolled the other man onto his side, while still mindful of the fact he was handcuffed. Sherlock was pale and sweaty, but his chest rose and fell steadily with shallow breaths. John brushed back a stray, wet curl. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry."

He couldn't help but feel like this was entirely his fault.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, hazy for a moment before they focused on him. "John," he croaked and then lost consciousness again.

John gave into the impulse to hold his friend close, ignoring the coldness and wetness seeping into his shirt. He needed to reassure himself with Sherlock's presence. Everything else could wait until later.

-x-x-x-

The next time that Sherlock awoke, he almost wished he hadn't. His head was blessedly light and empty, but every muscle screamed as pain knifed through his whole body, like it was one large exposed nerve ending. Raw and scratchy, his throat felt as if he had been screaming for an extended period of time. His shirt stuck unpleasantly to his clammy chest and equally clammy hands weakly groped around in the dark. After a moment, he hissed and stilled—every movement lodged another spike of pain into his frontal lobe. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to block out the aching, but it remained as a dull, persistent buzz in the background.

He flexed his fingers though, reveling in the fact he could.

The rest of his mental faculties took interminably long to come back online. The bed shifted (his bedroom) as the weight of a second person settled next to him.

"Sherlock?" John prodded gently.

Then he remembered the demon, John coming home early, John's soft lips and hard body... Sherlock had done unforgivable things to John. The demon had said even more despicable things with his mouth. Everything blended together in a fever dream of hallucinations, shame, and the demon's disturbed imagination he couldn't fully purge. His stomach rebelled and Sherlock lurched over the side of the bed. A bowl appeared on the floor underneath him, but Sherlock had nothing left in him to throw up (he didn't remember the demon either eating or drinking anything). He dry heaved for almost a minute, as a pair of warm and steady hands brushed back his hair.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Just breathe."

John helped ease him back onto the bed when Sherlock finally caught his breath again. A cool, wet flannel towel moped away the sweaty sheen from his forehead. John's hand lingered over his cheeks, leaving trails of heat in his finger's wake. Sherlock tried not to lean into the warmth and found it exceedingly easy when his body refused to operate properly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that escaped was a croaked noise approximate to John's name.

"Here, drink this."

A glass with a straw in it was guided to Sherlock's chapped lips. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the first drop hit his parched throat. He slurped the cool liquid greedily, but then broke into a coughing fit.

"Slowly!" John admonished. "You're dehydrated. When was the last time you ate?"

"Friday." He would have gotten around to eating today if it wasn't for the demon.

His flatmate fixed a stern glare on him. "I'm going to make you some soup and give you a slice of bread. Hopefully, you'll be able to keep it down. Later tonight, maybe we can see about getting you something more substantial. You're going to need the extra energy and calories"

"Yes, doctor." Sherlock couldn't manage as much bite as he wanted, but John's nagging concern was familiar.

John placed a fresh towel across Sherlock's forehead and moved away. For a heartwrenching second, Sherlock was sure the other man was leaving him and he couldn't think. Couldn't think of anything beyond the idea of John walking out the door and never coming back. He hated the demon more than anything—hated it for destroying, in a matter of minutes, all the hard work Sherlock had put in to keep his friend for just a little bit longer.

Someone was panting and moaning (it was him).

"Sherlock, listen to my voice. You need to calm down. Take deep breaths." John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's, providing the only necessary anchor. Sherlock gripped the offered hand tightly and took large gulps of air to combat the tightness in his lungs. He concentrated on the marcato huff of John's breath, his steadfast presence, the play of streetlights through the window on the ceiling overhead, the dim warmth cast by the lamp on his nightstand, London thrumming all around him... He absorbed all of those little bits into himself, until his heart no longer felt like it was trying to rip itself out from inside his chest.

The bed bounced slightly as John settled further on the mattress—their legs barely brushing up against each other. John still hadn't let go of his hand and their intertwined hands rested in the space between them. Sherlock tried not to hold on any tighter, but the impulse proved difficult to fight when he was so absolutely convinced his friend could disappear into thin air without warning.

Because the world no longer made perfect sense. Its fundamental principles had changed overnight.

John must have sensed his turmoil. "You have questions." The other man declared with more than a hint of irony.

Deja vu. How their roles had reversed since then. But this was good, he could focus on the facts and push all those messy emotions back for now. He would need time—a lot of time—to examine the damage done to their partnership.

"Is it gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone. It's not coming back." John gave his hand a brief squeeze, as if trying to reassure him (which was ridiculous; Sherlock was fine; he didn't need reassurances).

"What did you do to it?"

"Exorcised it, means it gets sent back to Hell."

"This was not the first time you've dealt with a demon."

John had been prepared—almost to the point where he had expected something like this to happen.

"No, it's not."

Quiet slipped into the empty nooks and crannies of their conversation. Sherlock welcomed the respite—it was a chance to process the new onslaught of information, to adjust his expectations, to re-examine old evidence anew. Despite the lethargy weighing his body down, his mind raced as new associations formed between nodes and the cascading activation solidified the links between them. He was building new networks and output bins as they laid there, populating them with what little information he had on hand. But there were too many gaps in his knowledge—far too many holes to be acceptable.

He needed to know more.

"What else is out there?" Sherlock turned his head to the left, looked up at John and asked.

The other man pursed his thin lips, considering, "Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, went up against an Irish pagan god last year. Pretty much everything you might have ever read about, that's if you haven't already deleted all that. And if rumors are to be believed, that includes angels."

"Yes, Constance did mention something about angels."

"Constance?"

"The demon. Don't they usually have names?"

"I don't know. I guess. It's not like I invite them over for tea and cakes, and then we have a conversation about the weather." John rolled his eyes.

"How could you tell though? Even Mycroft didn't notice the difference." And Mycroft was even more observant than Sherlock.

"Not entirely, Mycroft texted me after coming over this morning. He thought something might be wrong. I know you think I'm daft, but even I know you coming onto me like that is out of character for you." John's words seemed strained somehow, matching the coiling tension resurfacing in Sherlock's belly.

They each stared resolutely at a wall—anywhere but at each other.

John's next words were softspoken, "Plus, you weren't wearing the wristwatch."

"The watch?"

John retrieved the broken wristwatch from the nightstand and turned over the metal backing that had come loose. In the dim light, Sherlock just barely made out the elaborate laser etching on it. It shared some similar artistic motifs with John's tattoo, namely the pentagram. He should have noticed that. Had he and then subsequently deleted the knowledge?

"This was supposed to keep you safe," John said as his shoulders slumped a bit. "As long as you wore this, no demon would have been able to possess you."

He turned a critical eye to his flatmate, namely at his bare wrists. "What about you? You must wear something similar."

Pink crept high on John's cheek as he coughed embarrassingly, "Yeah, I have something more permanent."

"The tattoo."

John nodded.

That dark and jealous streak resurfaced. "Mary has the same tattoo. She is also a hunter." The word hunter and all its newly acquired implications rolled awkwardly off his tongue.

How long? Since before they met? For as long as they'd had known each other? No. More recent than that. This was that new set of behavior and baggage Sherlock had observed when he first came back. This was what John had put away for the sake of their friendship because he wouldn't tell. This was the life—the secrets that John shared with Mary Morstan—she was the source.

Sherlock should be mad. He should be terribly cross with John for not sharing these things with him beforehand (never mind that Sherlock occasionally withheld information from John for his own good!). But John had tried to tell him once, in the middle of a warm night last December. He remembered how on edge his flatmate was about the Hyde Park shooting. Sherlock had brushed him off then, and John had not brought it up again.

Would he have believed John without having seen the evidence firsthand?

Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Maybe, maybe not. This wasn't just new evidence—this was a paradigm shift.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John shook his shoulders gently.

Sherlock blinked, registering his hands steepled against his chin and his flatmate's worried face peering from off to the side. He waved John away and snapped, "I was thinking."

John's expression tightened. "You checked out for nearly ten minutes."

"I'm fine, stop worrying."

"I need to ask you some questions."

Sherlock tried not to show how much that declaration worried him, but his already weakened body betrayed with a tremor in his hands. "Really, John, the demon was trying to rile you up." Which was true and Sherlock didn't want to discuss all the other topics discussed.

"Not about what the demon said. They lie all the time, everyone knows that. Unless you want to talk about it..."

No.

No.

No.

"Ask your questions." He snapped and pressed his hands together to still them.

"Where and when did the demon get into you?"

Sherlock could handle this. "I encountered the demon at Charles Milverton's house, the blackmailer I was investigating. It caught me off-guard. As for what it wanted with me specifically, I cannot say. It seemed almost a matter of convenience given its previous body was damaged."

"Good, good." John nodded to himself before hesitating. "Did it do anything while it was in you?"

"Other than purposely irritating Mycroft and Lestrade?"

"Nothing else out of the ordinary?"

Sherlock paused as his discomfort grew. "I don't know. I lost almost nine hours at one point. It kept me from being aware. But I'm certain it had something to do with Eva Blackwell's disappearance."

"Okay, first order of business is figuring out what happened. Hopefully it's nothing too problematic, if not, maybe Mycroft can help sort it out."

He swallowed down his indignation at the thought of asking Mycroft for help. But it was for the better to keep the option open when he had no idea to what extent the demon had done damage to his reputation. Although the question of how to prove the existence of the paranormal to his brother was an interesting one to entertain.

"We should go back to Milverton's house." With John's expertise, they would be able to expel Milverton's demon, get rid of his blackmail materials, and hopefully find Lady Blackwell in one piece.

"Wait, why?"

"The demon was taking orders from Milverton. Then it stands to reason that another demon is currently in possession of Milverton."

John cursed, "Shit, you couldn't have said something earlier. Two of them... Do you think the other one suspects anything?"

"I have not been in contact with Milverton."

"Okay, right, change of plans. I'm going to go to Milverton's house, set a trap for him, and find out what he knows. You'll stay here—"

"No!" Sherlock growled. "I'm going as well."

"It's too dangerous and you're still weak from before. You need rest, Sherlock."

"No, this is my case. You cannot keep me out of it. You can try handcuffing me to the bed, but we both know I'll find a way out. It's better if I come along in the first place." His logic was irrefutable. He needed to see the case to its end. The idea of letting John face another demon on his own, even given his greater experience, was unacceptable.

John's capitulation was most evident in the slump of his shoulders. But he wasn't happy about giving in—only doing so because he was aware that Sherlock would not be dissuaded. "Fine, but you're going to eat something while I get the supplies we need."

Sherlock chose not to argue the point. His body was despicably exhausted.

When John left the room this time, Sherlock thankfully didn't have another panic attack (one was embarrassing enough). As his flatmate banged around the kitchen (pots clanging against the cooktop and contents being shifted in their cupboards, Sherlock decided on a quick shower. He was uncomfortably sticky from the exorcism.

He made it into the tub without falling and cracking his skull open, despite the shaky state of his knees. He stood under the warm spray, allowing the water to massage the aching muscles in his back and arms. His hands wandered idly over parts of his body, tracing the multitude of scars—big and small—earned during his long exile from London. Between the faded nicks of an active and troubled childhood, the marks of drug abuse from his mid-twenties, and a lifetime of working with chemicals, his skin had never been pristine and unmarred. Being a consulting detective had added an impressive array of smaller scars to the collection. Now there was the discolored patch of burnt skin splotched over his right flank, the bullet scar that graced his upper left bicep, the swatch of healing knife cuts that would vanish with time, and the nonnegligible number scattered across his back.

His fingers trailed down to his wrists, where angry red bruising had formed from the demon straining against the handcuffs. After rubbing irritably on the spots, the small stretches of already abused skin broke and bled. Pink circled the tub's drain and Sherlock fought the sudden resurgence of nausea.

This was intolerable. The sight of blood never troubled him before.

But the demon had a very vivid imagination and didn't understand the concept of oversharing. It had been more than a little enamored with the idea of John's blood outside of his body.

He didn't know how long he had been in the shower—his eyes singing from a combination of the water and not blinking for extended periods—before John knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, are you okay in there?"

"Stop hovering. I'm not a child!"

John said nothing further in return. Sherlock waited until the other man's footsteps faded down the hall and turned off the water. He dried off, sloppily bandaged his wrists (because he couldn't stand the thought of more touching from John), and slipped back into his bedroom. He considered getting dressed again, but couldn't muster the energy. He pulled a dressing gown around his naked frame, tied the sash around his waist, and marched out into the kitchen as if nothing had changed.

John's gaze followed Sherlock around the kitchen as he checked to see if any of his experiments could be salvaged (the demon had ruined each and every one of them). His skin crawled and itched from all the emotions the demon had shaken loose. Sherlock was defiant though and turned to look at John, who was sitting by the writing desk with a tray of food. Their eyes met across the length of the living room (hot and heavy and heady; and Sherlock regretted not having gotten dressed first). John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed; he was also the first to break the stare.

"Come over here," John called. "We're not going anywhere until you eat and explain the case to me in full."

In between mouthfuls of soup and bread, Sherlock did just that. John took notes in his moleskin, like he did for any of their other cases. But even upside down, Sherlock could make out the less familiar bulletpoints about the paranormal (witch?; demon?; was it summoned?; binding spell? search for altar).

John was staring again; though his attempts to be surreptitious came off as anything but. His sneaking glances grated on Sherlock's last nerve. With a bang, Sherlock slammed the spoon down on the table (he failed to startle John). "What?"

"What was it like, being possessed?"

"You've never been."

John shook his head. "No."

Sherlock clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palm. Empty, weak, draining, helpless, soul-crushing: just a few adjectives or the parts that could be explained, but then there were the parts that defied explanations. Finally, he settled on, "Annoying when I couldn't use my own body, boring because there was nothing to occupy my mind."

John remained unconvinced and tried to prod further, "I'm here if you want to talk about it. Demons have a way of messing with your mind. You should never blindly believe anything they tell you."

His inside went cold. Of course. This was John's way of gently letting him down. Don't believe anything the demon told you: I don't want you. Not really. Under normal circumstance, John was a red-blooded bisexual man with a relatively high libido. You couldn't fault his body for reacting.

He stood and left the room without another word. He needed to focus on the case if they were going to find Lady Blackwell alive. Everything else could wait until later.


	13. Easter Sunday III (Men of wealth and taste)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything changes.

Due to the bandaging around his wrist, Sherlock left his shirt cuffs unfastened. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror and was forced to admit his pallor was worse than usual. But now that his stomach was half stuffed with broth and carbohydrates, his strength was starting to return. It may be a few days before he fully recovered though. Sherlock would do his best to stifle the traitorous demands of his body in the meanwhile.

His mobile rang— sounding somewhat muffled. He found the device in his coat pocket, which John had folded neatly and left over the top of his bureau.

Sherlock had never seen that number before. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Constance," Milverton greeted from the other end of the line.

He pressed the mobile harder against his ear to combat the sudden tremor in his right hand. Milverton still thought the demon was in him. This could work to his advantage. He would make this work to his advantage.

"What do you want, Charlie?" he replied in a close approximation to what he remembered of Constance's actual cadence.

"Have the police contacted you?"

"They called in Sherlock earlier today."

"What did you say?"

Sherlock reviewed everything that the demon had said to Lestrade. It had been trying to cast suspicion on him by refusing to give an alibi. But to what end? Why bother with the kidnapping at all when they could and have blackmailed these people for money? "Nothing, as I assume that was the plan. The police are now wasting valuable time trying to figure out Sherlock's connection with the kidnapping."

"Good. Once Kingston pays the ransom, we'll be able to close this contract. Stay out of trouble until then."

"And Eva Blackwell?"

The ensuing silence worried Sherlock. He feared he had revealed his hand.

"Don't worry about her. I'll take care of it." Milverton said and disconnected.

When he emerged fully dressed from his bedroom, he found John talking on his own phone. The blond man's back was turned to the kitchen, so Sherlock took the opportunity to observe. He noted the rigid tension that John held himself with and that he was favoring his left leg (psychosomatic limp flaring up because of stress).

"Thanks a lot, Greg. Keep me in the loop, yeah?" With that, John rang off, sighed, dropped his phone on the sofa, and sank down next to it while burying his face in his hands. His position emphasized the purpling bruise that Sherlock—no, the demon—had sucked over John's pulse point. A wave of possessiveness crashed over Sherlock; he wanted to lave his tongue over the mark and claim the territory as his own.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut against the invading images. This was intolerable. How did... normal people function with all these aches and urges and  _needs_?

He needed to stow it all away. He was the master of his own body again. It was all transport.

"Smoothed it all over with Lestrade then?"

John startled at Sherlock's sudden reappearance. He sat up straight, licked his lips, and discarded the question he obviously wanted to ask (Sherlock had the feeling it was about health and emotional state) for something case-related. "Yeah, Lestrade doesn't think you're involved, but he's asking you to stay away for everyone's sake. They got another ransom call an hour ago. Five million pounds in non-sequential notes of twenty pounds each. Lestrade thinks the next call will finally give them a drop-off location."

"Did they trace the call?"

"Burner phone, it was probably discarded as soon as the call was done."

"If Milverton is smart, which he is."

"So you're convinced Milverton has something to do with Eva Blackwell's kidnapping?"

"I have no doubt that he orchestrated the entire affair. He confirmed as much on the phone just minutes ago." Sherlock rooted around the mess on the writing desk (the demon had destroyed his meticulous filing system!). He'd seen the cigarettes John hid from him somewhere in the pile when Constance ransacked the living room earlier.

John jumped to his feet with alarm written all over his face. "You called him?!"

He ignored John and gave a small triumphant shout when he liberated a half-crushed pack from the disorder. Before Sherlock could locate a lighter, John snatched the cigarettes away and dangled them out of reach.

"You promised you'd quit for real." John scolded.

Sherlock eyed his flatmate, considering all possible angles of attack. Retrieving the cigarettes would require coming into close contact with John's person—which would render whatever calming effects from smoking null. Not worth it. He huffed and folded himself into his armchair.

"Back to Milverton. You talked to him."

"He called me," Sherlock corrected. "He thought the demon still possessed me and confided in me accordingly. He apparently has some sort of contract with the husband, Gareth Kingston. We need to hurry, John. We have only hours. As soon as Kingston pays the ransom to Milverton, Lady Blackwell is certain to be killed."

"How can you be sure she's still alive right now?"

"Milverton spoke of taking care of her in the future tense. He was unwilling to share anymore beyond that. If she was already dead, he would have said something. I get the feeling that demons love to brag."

"True, most of them do. But we don't know for sure if Milverton's possessed or if it's something else."

"Milverton was a coward, a bit player at best in London's criminal underworld despite the small fortune he's made extorting others. Before now, he has never blackmailed anyone of real significance, not like Lady Blackwell. The demands he made of her were excessive, designed to inflame her indignation—not get her to pay. She would have paid a more reasonable sum than the one he demanded. Milverton should have negotiated—he only cares about the money and the small thrill he gets from besting someone in order to boost his own crippled self-esteem. Eva Blackwell fits none of the parameters that we should expect of Milverton's victims. So he's moved onto much bigger game in recent months—Mycroft confirmed that for me this morning. Why?" he cast a withering look in John's direction. "I assume that drastic personality changes are one of the warning signs of demonic possession."

"That and the completely black eyes are a dead giveaway."

"John..."

"Okay, sorry, yes, but don't forget that demons are pretty good at shamming as the people they possess. They have access to all your thoughts, feelings, and memories."

"But only when it suits them. Constance only bothered up to a certain point. What else? What other abilities do they have?"

"Every demon's a bit different, they're individuals like people. But most demons can teleport," John counted off his fingers as he listed his answer. "They're stronger and more resilient than normal human beings—they're pretty much invulnerable to everything that would otherwise kill their hosts and don't need food or water as you found out—they can see other supernatural creatures for what they really are; and most have some degree of telekinesis too. I've heard that some practice magic too."

Those were all powers Sherlock had seen evidence of thus far. "But there's more."

John hesitated as his posture stiffened. "Most of the ones that hunters meet out on the job are the low-level ones. But there are special cases."

"Such as?"

"Crossroad demons."

Sherlock waved an impatient hand, signaling for John to continue.

His flatmate sighed, "People—human beings—are usually the ones that summon them. Crossroad demons... they make deals with people. Whatever you want, whatever your heart desires, you can have it if you're willing to sell your soul for it."

"A Faustian bargain. I assume this is the sort of thing selfless and desperate people would do on behalf of loved ones. It can't be a self-sustaining business model." Sherlock frowned.

John avoided looking Sherlock in the eye now. The subject was clearly making him feel uncomfortable in a way even his previous secrets didn't. Shame? Why? "It's not just desperate people. It's selfish people, stupid people, just people in general that can be tempted into a deal. The demon doesn't get your soul right away. You both agree to a number of years before the demon gets to collect. The standard contract is ten years."

"Brilliant," he muttered to himself. Excitement thrummed in his blood over the chance to absorb new criminal knowledge, even if it operated on an entirely different plane than the mortal one.

That made John look up with horror. "Sherlock, you can't mean—"

"But it is! Brilliant that is! The deferred payment lulls the target into a false sense of confidence. Some probably think they'll be able to hide or find a way to break the deal before their time's up. People tell themselves that with ten years, they can get married, raise a family, enjoy the fruits of their deal, and do all the other rubbish normal people idealize. A decade seems a lot farther off than it actually is. They're con artists! Despite all their powers, their primary motive is profit. And they always return to collect, don't they? There's no way out of the contract, is there?"

"No, as far as anyone knows, only the demon with your contract can break it."

"You said they grant wishes, what kind? Are there any limits to what they can do?" Sherlock asked, gleefully.

"No, they can do just about anything as long as you sell your soul. Nothing seems beyond them, not even bringing back the dead."

Sherlock could almost hear the screech as his train of thoughts derailed. A cold sweat, brought on by the quiet quality of John's voice, broke over him. Demons were not allowed to have John. They were not allowed to take him from Sherlock. "John, did you—"

The other man cut him off. "Of course, I didn't."

"No, no, of course not," the reassurance still felt shaky and clumsy rolling off his tongue. "Doing that would be the absolute height of idiocy, and you're not a complete idiot."

"Thanks, I think."

"But you thought about it?"

John turned his face to the side, actively avoiding Sherlock's gaze once more. But he presented the side with the love bite to Sherlock. "I did for a while. Then Mary knocked some sense into me."

"Good, good." It wasn't often that Sherlock was forced to acknowledge Mary Morstan's worth.

John cleared his throat and gave a small smile. Somehow, against all reason, that was enough to break the awkward spell. Sherlock was becoming daft—that must be the only explanation.

"You think Milverton might be a crossroad demon then?"

"No, you think it. But it's dangerous to come to a conclusion without all the data. We need to catch Milverton and see for ourselves. Supplies—you mentioned supplies earlier. We should get those before we leave."

"I was going to ask Mary to bring them over. But now that I think we probably have everything we need in the flat." John frowned while assessing the mess of their living room.

"What do we need?"

John's wry smile caused Sherlock's breath to catch. "Spray-paint, and a lot of sturdy rope."

-x-x-x-

Before they left the flat, John forced Sherlock to wear a different anti-possession charm. Sherlock spent the short cab ride over to Milverton's house turning the charm over and over, trying to determine what made it special. He seemed almost insulted that iconography alone could ward off demonic possession. But Sherlock held off on his questions and observations until after they broke into the house and started preparing the living room. John answered them as best as he could between drawing up the devil's trap and blessing more holy water for interrogation use.

("But John, you're not a priest. You're not even observant."

"It doesn't matter. It'll work. I blessed that batch I used on you."

"That makes no sense. It's not really holy water if anyone off the streets can make it with a few verses of Latin and access to a tap."

"It doesn't have to make sense. It just works."

Sherlock sputtered with outrage. "That's appalling and in no way should that be an acceptable answer to even an amateur scientist!")

After the living room, they went to the study upstairs where John kept watch as Sherlock snooped through Milverton's computer and safe. Once Sherlock had copied the files and evidence he wanted, he wiped the hard drive. The contents of the safe were loaded into an empty messenger bag. With the more mundane aspects of the case taken care of, they returned to the living room to wait for Milverton himself.

Around half past ten, light from a pair of high beam headlamps coming up the driveway and a rumbling engine signaled Milverton's return. They left a lamp on in the living room to draw Milverton in, but there were few places to stand or hide out of the demon's immediate line of sight. The soft snick of the front door being unlocked sent John reaching for his gun as Sherlock took him by the wrist and maneuvered them both behind a set of heavy drapes in the corner.

"Sherlock, what—?"

"Quiet, or he'll hear us."

The two of them barely fit into the space between the curtains and the window. They would manage—the curtains were just long enough to hide their feet and heavy enough to not bulge around their huddled forms. It also meant they had to stand right in each other's personal space, just a hair's breadth away from touching. Back straight and knuckles wrapped white around his pistol, John tried very hard not to think about the warm breath combing through his hair. Behind him, Sherlock let loose a quiet huff before planting a hand on each hip and pulling John back until they were nestled together.

Even through layers of clothing, Sherlock's hand felt like hot brands.

What was Sherlock playing at? Why was he doing this now that John's feelings for him had been dragged out in the open by the demon? Sherlock might be a little blind to the affairs of the heart, but surely even he wouldn't be able to miss the hard-on he got from kissing. He knew that John wanted him desperately in a more-than-platonic way. Back at the flat, John thought Sherlock might have decided to ignore his attraction.

Which was fine. At least they could keep their partnership and friendship like that.

So why now? Was he testing John?

What expression was on Sherlock's face right then? Disgust? Annoyance? John fought the urge to turn around and face him.

He waited for Sherlock to release him, but they remained that way—back pressed against chest—as Milverton dropped his keys off and came down the hallway toward them. He breathed in and let Sherlock's scent envelop him. John would squirrel away whatever he could of these brief encounters. At least until it hurt too much to do so. Then he'd try for a clean break.

Footsteps grew nearer. Milverton was going to have to walk right past them to reach the lamp. Once he did, they could easily give him the shove needed to get him in the trap.

Maybe John should have called Mary for backup.

"Is someone here?" Milverton asked suddenly.

The quality of his voice raised flags for John. Something was off.

Then Milverton shuffled past them and Sherlock leaned in far too close, whispering urgently, "Now is our chance."

John lunged out and brought the butt off his gun down on the back off Milverton's head. As soon as Milverton went down, Sherlock stepped in with rope and tied some of the most intricate knots John had ever seen. They hauled the unconscious and bound body into the trap and waited for the demon to wake out.

It shouldn't have taken long—minutes at most. Yet it took almost a half an hour before Milverton finally regained consciousness. By then, Sherlock was a tense ball of excess energy and angry impatience.

Milverton groaned loudly as he came to, shaking his groggy head. Dazed, he muttered, "What?"

Sherlock snapped to attention and snarled, "Tell me everything you know."

Milverton took one look at the tall detective and blanched Even though his hands and feet were tied together, he struggled and kicked against his bindings. "No, get away from me! Don't come any closer!" The terror alone sounded genuine enough.

"Don't think you can fool me twice. I know what you really are now." Sherlock scooped one of the bottles of holy water John had blessed off the floor and moved closer.

Milverton turned pleading eyes to John and begged, "There's something in your friend. Please help me, don't let him kill me!"

He looked like a man that feared for his own life.

"Sherlock, wai—"

But Sherlock had already lashed out with the holy water, drenching Milverton's face and torso. Milverton neither screamed nor writhed in pain; thus confirming John's suspicion. The man sputtered a bit and shook himself like a wet dog.

"John, he's not screaming. I thought this was supposed to hurt. You said it would work!" Sherlock spun on his heels to face John. His face was thunderous and accusing.

John wasn't sure why he did it, but he reached across and eased the crushed bottle out of Sherlock's fingers. The contact sent jolts of electricity racing up John's arm. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Sherlock, who was beginning to look off-balance. As quick on the uptake as Sherlock usually was, John imagined there was still a mental barrier to entry for the entire affair.

Milverton fell over on his side, still squirming. And he was clearly out of the bounds of the devil's trap painted on the ceiling.

All that work for nothing...

John sighed, "The demon's not in him anymore. That's why the holy water's not having any effect."

"What?"

Milverton cut in, "Yes, it's gone. It's not in me anymore."

Sherlock jerked back, surprised. "It just left? Why would it do that?"

"Who knows," John shrugged. "Demons hop in and out of vessels all the time. There's no real rhyme or reason."

But he pulled out his mobile phone and turned on the video camera option. Milverton looked up at him with suspicion when he turned the lens at the trapped man.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Looking for retinal flare. It's one of the easier ways of testing to see if he's a shifter or not."

He slipped his phone back into his pocket. Milverton was clean—it was a long shot anyway. If he was a witch—which John doubted as he hadn't found any grimoires or other tools of the craft, Milverton wouldn't still be playing the victim. Milverton looked ragged, as if he had been running days on little to no sleep. He was less worse for wear than Sherlock had been. It appeared that this other demon had taken care of his vessel to some extent. Rare, but not unheard of.

"You'll still tell us everything you know." Sherlock's tone said he would brook no argument.

Milverton protested, "I have no idea what it's planning!"

"What do you remember about the beginning?" John would try to ease Milverton into it. "Where did it possess you? How long ago did it start?"

"About a month and a half ago. I was meeting with... a client—"

"You mean another victim of your blackmail," Sherlock interrupted to snarl.

Milverton paled further. "Yes, it was in her first. She had me pinned down and the next thing I knew I couldn't move my body anymore. There was this thing in my head, doing and saying things in my place. I didn't understand what was happening. The next day, its partner was in my PA, Ashley."

"What did it want?"

"I don't know! It just wanted to be me. It did my work at the talent agency, and it continued with the extortion too. But after a while, it moved on to other targets, but they were people I would have never considered blackmailing. The other demon would jump bodies or do something, but she always got mine what he wanted. They'd extort the target for not only money, but favors and promises and..." Milverton trailed off.

"Souls?" John asked quietly.

Milverton nodded slowly. "They made some sort of contract with the demon, their souls in exchange for their problems going away or their secrets never seeing the light of day."

"Who did he make those contracts with?" Sherlock demanded.

"I... I don't know. I have trouble remembering what happened. There were long times where I just seemed to float in and out of consciousness. I never really knew what was happening around me."

"Then why did he let you go? Why now? Where is it?"

"I don't know where I was. It jumped into Gareth Kingston and told me this was my only chance to run. So I did, I found my car outside and drove home. I was going to pack and leave the country! Please let me go now. I need to leave before it comes back. You can't let it take me again!"

"Useless!" Sherlock stormed out of the room.

John sighed and retrieved his silver dagger. Milverton shrunk back when he approached. "I'm going to cut the rope. If you run or scream, I can still hurt you. Just because the demon's no longer inside of you, it doesn't absolve you of everything else you've done before it."

"I'll never break the law again, I swear. Please just let me go."

As John freed Milverton from the binding, he asked, "Do you remember anything else about where you were? Was Eva Blackwell also there?"

"It was an abandoned warehouse—I think it was somewhere in Barking. I may have seen Lady Blackwell, but I can't be sure. Everything immediately before it released me was a bit hazy."

"Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Anything that could help you identify where you were?"

"I don't know!" Milverton snapped. "I didn't care. All I wanted to do was get as far away from that thing as possible. I couldn't care less about what happens to Gareth Kingston or Eva Blackwell now."

"You really are trash." John pulled back and picked up his gun. He watched with some satisfaction as Milverton cowered away from the firearm.

"John," Sherlock said as he reappeared suddenly, causing John to instinctively aim his gun in his direction. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. "We're leaving. Now."

John made sure his weapons were collected and stowed away before following Sherlock to the front door. Milverton trailed a few steps behind them. It was then that John noticed that Sherlock held a set of car keys in one hand and the messenger bag full of evidence was slung over one shoulder.

"We'll be borrowing your vehicle. I'm sure the police will notify you in a few days when they find it abandoned wherever we leave it." Sherlock declared.

"You can't!" Now that Milverton was no longer tied down, he reacted more physically. He planted himself between them and the door. Sherlock stepped up to Milverton, and the two men glared at each other. John knew that Sherlock was going to win, that much was obvious from Sherlock's sheer force of will and the fatigue that was beginning to shake Milverton's body.

"You will do nothing to stop us or get in our way. If you do, I will have all the evidence I've gathered on you sent to New Scotland Yard and you can spend the next ten years fighting the criminal and civil charges," Sherlock hissed.

Milverton winced, but didn't move. Not that it mattered as Sherlock easily shoved the man to the side and waltzed out the door. When John tried to leave the house as well, Milverton grabbed his sleeve in the doorway.

"Is there something I can do against the demon? Is there some way I can kill it or trap it?" Milverton's voice shook with fear.

John considered the older man, taking in the colorless pallor and the wrinkles carved by stress. Milverton had caused all kinds of untold suffering in the past. The demon was not going to come back for Milverton if John had anything to do about it. He was going to do his best to exorcise this one as well. Because that was his job.

But Milverton knew none of that. He was too busy worrying about his own sorry hide.

"No, there's nothing you can do. You can run all you like, but if it wants to find you, it will." And John raced past the shaken man on the doorsteps.

Sherlock had taken the driver's seat and was fiddling with the GPS computer on the dashboard when John finally slipped into the passenger's seat. The detective glanced up at Milverton, still frozen in the doorway, before looking at John. "He asked you for help. You didn't offer any. That's unlike you, John."

John sat with his back straight. Shame was better saved for the people who deserved it. "If everything goes well, the demon won't be coming back for him anyway. He doesn't need to know that though."

"You could have given him one of those anti-possession charms. I saw you had extras."

"Yeah, but he's going to try and leave the country as soon as we're gone. Even if the demon escapes us, I doubt it'll go through the trouble of tracking him down to use his body again. Why are we taking his car?"

"Because he used the GPS to find his way back here. If we reverse the last route he took, we'll be able to find where Lady Blackwell and the demon are."

"Brilliant!"

"Elementary."

"Fine, but you do know we're most likely walking into a trap right?"

Sherlock flashed him a sharp grin. "Of course."

-x-x-x-

Reversing the most recent route stored in the GPS took them to the riverside development in Barking. But before they got onto the A13, Sherlock made a stopover where he dropped off the messenger bag with someone from his homeless network and paid him fifty pounds to deliver the content in its entirety to Lestrade. Sherlock had no intention of letting Milverton escape justice—he had been blackmailing and extorting long before demonic possession.

Sherlock tried to focus on the road ahead, but John's presence next to him was like a beacon in the dark. His attention was continually drawn to the other man.

The end destination was in the parking lot flanked by a shipping yard on one side and a row of buildings on the other. John climbed out of the car with his bag of equipment and looked to Sherlock for directions. Even now, with his greater expertise in the matter, John was still willing to defer to Sherlock's judgment when necessary. John could find monsters, but Sherlock found people.

Sherlock headed toward the line of factories and warehouses while John followed in his way. Milverton came from that direction—the gravel he had tracked inside the house was most consistent with the sort found near industrial complexes. He pulled out his cellphone to use the light to illuminate their way across the dark expanse of concrete, but John fished an electronic torch from his bag and handed it to Sherlock.

A set of footprints in the gravel (size nine, heel dragged, Milverton's) came from the direction of three closely set buildings. Once the gravel gave way to the concrete pavement, any visible trail went cold. Sherlock stopped and studied the three buildings.

A sudden burst of light to his left caused Sherlock to tense and turn. But it was just John, who was painstakingly texting on his mobile.

"What are you doing?!" He hissed, furious more at himself than anyone else. He needed to stop jumping at the slightest commotion.

"I'm texting Mary. She should know where we are, in case someone else needs to come and finish the job." His jaws were tightly set—its hollows highlighted by the blue light emitting from the phone's screen.

"How high is the mortality rate in this line of work?"

John's eyes left the screen and flicked momentarily to Sherlock. "I don't know. How high would you have guessed?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the problem at hand. "High enough."

One of the buildings—the one on the far left—was still in use. Signs of frequent entrances and exits marked the area around a service door and there appeared to be a night guard on patrol. The other two were more or less abandoned; though they only suffered from several months of disuse, rather than years. Neither had enough windows to determine if the lights inside were on. On his second scan of the exterior of the buildings, he spotted a car bumper belonging to a 2012 Aston Martin DB9 peeking out around the corner—the same car that had been parked in Blackwell Manor's driveway earlier that day.

"That one!" Sherlock pointed to the building on the far right and took off.

Behind him, John cursed and fumbled with his mobile before his pounding footfall fell into time with Sherlock's. Sherlock smiled to himself—the full-lipped grin hidden by the cover of darkness. Nothing about the dynamics of their relationship had to change. This would be proof of that.

The Aston Martin was parked right by a side door being propped open by a discarded brick. John pressed a bottle of holy water into his hands before shouldering his pack and flicking off the safety on his Browning.

"I'm going in first. I'll call you once I've made sure the area is clear." John gave a pointed glare that stated he would overrule any objection.

Sherlock still had to try. Letting John go in alone was dangerous. The worst part was he couldn't even attempt a risk analysis as he didn't have all the parameters.

"Don't! Stay here." John slipped away into the blackness inside.

Sherlock allowed almost three minutes to pass before discarding John's instructions and following in. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. He was surrounded by abandoned shelving units and pieces of machinery. In the next large and cavernous room were the remains of a former assembly line—most likely produced car engines when it still ran. He moved as quietly as he could, but the empty nature of the building amplified every tiny sound by a thousand-fold.

At the end of a hallway, light seeped out from an office door left ajar. Sherlock pressed himself against the wall next to the crack and listened to the voices coming from inside.

"You must have a death wish coming here on your own, hunter."

That was Gareth Kingston speaking. Sherlock then corrected himself; that was the demon inside Kingston speaking.

Sherlock could have used a gun of his own—no matter what John said about bullets doing nothing to slow down demons.

Kingston continued, "Nothing else to say? You are every bit the good soldier, Mister Watson."

"Go to hell." John spat with audible venom.

"I'd prefer not to. That is the entire point of this exercise. Hell has undergone a recent change in management, one which I and a number of colleagues don't approve of."

"Then go slaughter each other. Leave us humans out of it."

"Would that I could, Watson. But you meatbags are quite necessary. Do you know the true worth of a human soul? I'd gather no, seeing how you lot will trade it away for a few measly million quid. Souls are the power source of Heaven and Hell. You can't wage war without an arsenal on your side."

"The deals you've been making, they're not for Hell though, are they?"

"No. I have no intention of waging war, all I want to do is live in peace and prosperity on this earth. Hell is nowhere as interesting as this. I can offer you a deal too, John Hamish Watson. What will it be? True love? The ability to operate again? I'll even let you take the Lady Blackwell with you when you leave and you can play hero. Anything your heart desires, I can give to you. What do you say, John?"

The demon's reply sounded like a spit in the face. Sherlock tensed when he heard a fist collide with flesh and a soft pained grunt from John. He needed to find another way into the room. Maybe he could draw the demon's attention with a distraction? There were three possibilities nearby, but none of them guaranteed success.

"Or perhaps your friend at the door would like to trade his for your life?"

The door flew open and something yanked Sherlock over the threshold. He landed unsuccessfully, prostrated. From his angle against the floor, he could see Lady Blackwell lying in the corner—bound, unconscious, but relatively unharmed. John was another story. His pack was clear on the other side of the room. One of Kingston's hands held John's gun while the other was clamped in John's short hair. Kingston yanked back, exposing John's throat and pressed the cold metal of the gun under the jaw.

Sherlock forced himself to stand.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes, how good of you to join us again." The color that consumed the whites of Kingston's eyes was not black—but a deep murky red.

"Sherlock, I told you to wait outside!" John growled and was then cut off by another sharp pull of his head.

"Interesting, he's the hunter, but you're completely new to this. Do you need me to explain the terms of a contract?"

Sherlock was tempted to wipe that patronizing smirk off Kingston's face, but he couldn't—not while John was still in danger. "No thank you," he said coldly. "I am well aware of what a bargain with a crossroad demon entails."

"I don't think you do know. You're making a deal with me, not with Hell. No years to wait, I simply lay claim to your soul. I'd say it was a good deal."

"Don't you dare!" John snarled, twisting in Kingston's hold.

In response, Kingston clamped a hand around the front of John's neck and put pressure on the airway. "You can have the gun if you like, Mister Holmes. I have no use for it. I prefer the more personal touch when it comes to killing."

Sherlock checked over the room again. An escape route was unlikely to materialize out of thin air in the last ten minutes, but stranger things had happened today.

"You really have no choice, Sherlock. There's no other option."

"And you'll let us, all three of us, leave here alive?" Sherlock asked. He gestured to Lady Blackwell to emphasize their third."Of course, I have no use for your soul if you die, Sherlock. I need you alive, otherwise your soul may move somewhere beyond my reach. This is the bargain of a lifetime."

"What do you say, Mister Holmes?" Kingston said sweetly. "Your poor already-doomed soul for the life of your friend—your best friend?"

Constance had been right. Sherlock had done many damning things already, and if the concept of Heaven and Hell proved solvent, there was little doubt where his soul would be headed after death. If he could save John, that would be the least he could do.

John had to live.

John gasped and tried to shake his head.  _Don't you dare_ , said his face.

"Fine!"

"Sherlock!" John choked out, his face gradually turning blue, but brow still knit together in fury.

"What do we have here?" A new arrival drawled.

Suddenly, Kingston was ripped away and thrown back, while John stumbled and gasped for air. Sherlock acted without thinking, diving forward and wrapping one arm around John's waist and keeping him from falling to the ground. He turned, still using his body to shield John, to get a glance at the newcomer. The newcomer (male; late thirties into early forties; worked a desk job?) was dressed entirely in black and was most probably a supernatural being of some sort, because he couldn't have gotten to the other end of the room without passing by them first.

"You..." Kingston wheezed, pinned against the wall and suddenly white as a sheet.

"Hallo, Charlie. It's been a while," The danger suggested by the stranger's smile was far more subtle (a wolf in sheep's clothing). It made the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on their ends and the primal lizard fear reared its head again. "Bet you were hoping I'd forgotten about you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to piece together what exactly was happening. Not enough background knowledge.

"How did you find me?" The demon struggled harder against the invisible force holding him.

"You should be more careful about how you choose your friends."

"Constance!"

"I can't have you undermining me in these most delicate of times. I'm going to make a severe example out of you." The stranger waved his hand and Kingston vanished.

"What do you want?" John pushed off Sherlock, trying to put himself in front of Sherlock. It was probably some misguided attempt to protect Sherlock.

"I'm getting rid of your problem, boys. You should get on your knees and thank me."

"You're also a demon." Sherlock frowned. "Not just any demon, someone important judging by your suit."

"My suit?" The unnamed demon quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes, your suit," Sherlock snapped impatiently. Demons were turning out to be just as slow as regular humans. Wasn't that tedious? "You fancy yourself a businessman—the managerial type, so better than your peers whom you think are stupid and short-sighted. I can relate. You've taken care of your host body, meaning you intend to keep it long-term, which I gather is a luxury for most demons that shed their hosts like people shed their clothes. You've only recently come into your position of authority. Your manicured hands, your attire, even your haircut: all indulgences and ego dressing for a man that received a recent promotion."

"Oh, how did Mick put it? 'Let me please introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste'?" The stranger shrugged in that casual way (meant to deflect—meant to distract) that reminded Sherlock far too much of Jim Moriarty,

Judging by the way John's eyebrows flew into his hairline, what the demon said was meant to be a telling clue. Probably a pop culture reference.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.

John turned disbelieving eyes at him (the same expression when Sherlock had brushed off the importance of heliocentrism). "The devil, Sherlock, Lucifer? Sympathy for the devil, haven't you—of course, you haven't; what am I saying?"

"Oh no, not Lucifer. Didn't you kids hear? The Apocalypse was averted, and Lucifer and Michael were both thrown back into that mangy cage? The name's Crowley, the  _new_ king of Hell, and the pleasure's all yours." The new demon gave a small mock bow.

"The king of Hell?"

"That's right, I manage everything downstairs. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a torture session to attend to," Crowley turned to leave.

"Wait," Sherlock called. "You're just going to let us go? I find that hard to believe. We are your enemy."

Crowley's answering sigh was exasperated, "Ugh, why do all you hunters insist on looking a gift horse in the mouth? Yes, I'm just going to let you go. Unless you're stupid enough to try and stop me. But I guarantee that won't end well for you two."

"What about Gareth Kingston? Where did you take him?" John asked.

Sherlock refused to take his eyes off this so-called King of Hell. "Don't worry about Gareth Kingston, John. He was the one that asked for Lady Blackwell to be kidnapped. I suspect he had some sort of deal with the demon, his soul in exchange for a controlling interest in his wife's financial interest. She was going to divorce him in the near future. Lady Blackwell has been Kingston's sole source of financial support for the last decade. Without her, he would be desolate."

Crowley whistled approvingly. "Right you are there, luv. Not everyday I run into a hunter with half a brain."

John wouldn't back down. "What of the other contracts he made?"

Sherlock bit down the urge to tell John to shut up.

Crowley snorted, "Why they default to me, his boss, naturally."

John fell silent.

"I will say, for hunters, you two are amazingly well put-together. No daddy issues, no crippling addictions, no dangerous codependency. It's kind of refreshing actually. Although you might want to do something about that smoldering sexual tension between you two," Crowley pivoted gracefully and looked pointedly at Sherlock, "Who is your tailor by the way? I've been searching for a new one ever since they ate my last one."

Sherlock glared at the demon. The sooner Crowley left, the better. The apprehension crawling along the length of Sherlock's body was distracting. He wanted to keep John safe, but he had no idea what to do in this case.

Crowley threw them one last mocking grin. "Goodbye, boys. You'd better hope our paths don't cross again."

Then they were left alone in the room with the unconscious Lady Blackwell.

John was furious the next time he spoke. "We are going to have a long talk about making deals with demons when we get back to the flat."

Sherlock ignored him and focused on undoing the knots binding Eva Blackwell's arms and legs.

-x-x-x-

They never got the chance to talk. Between explaining everything to Lady Blackwell and dealing with the police afterwards, it was beyond late by the time they got back to 221B. Sherlock cast off his coat and disappeared straight into his bedroom without a word. John sighed, picked up the coat off the floor and hung it next to his on the rack.

He lingered in the kitchen, moving the kettle and some mugs around with no real intention of making tea. He waited for Sherlock to emerge from his room—probably in a storm of silk and demanding further explanations about the supernatural. But ten minutes later, it became obvious that Sherlock was not going to do so. He debated going to check on his flatmate, but he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate it.

Sherlock must still be tired from his own demonic possession. He would need all the sleep he could manage.

"Good night, Sherlock. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

He received no response. He trudged up the stairs and began his pre-bed routine of changing, brushing his teeth, and using the loo. The adrenaline from earlier hadn't run its course yet, leaving John lying wide awake in the bed with the duvet pulled up to his chin. He stared at the ceiling above him, contemplating the chips in the plaster and odd holes from Sherlock's occasional experiments.

The events of the day still weighed heavily on John's mind. They had met the King of Hell—if this demon named Crowley was to be believed. If that was true, they were probably lucky to have escape unscathed—even if only by the grace of the demon not seeing them as legitimate threats. It seemed that in the wake of the almost-Apocalypse, major changes were taking place in the world at large.

John turned onto his good side and closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. But from this angle, he could better hear the noise coming from downstairs. His bedroom was directly above Sherlock's. It sounded as if Sherlock was still awake, pacing back and forth.

The patter of Sherlock's steps and the sound of the flat settling soon lulled John into a light slumber.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock hovered in front of John's bedroom door for minutes—or maybe it was hours. Time, for once, was of no real consequence to him. Brief fits of snoring emanated from inside the room, and the bed creaked whenever John moved in his sleep. John was exhausted coming home, which left Sherlock feeling strangely guilty whenever his flatmate had yawned.

Sherlock was tired too. At least his body was, but his mind too busy reconciling the seemingly conflicted realities he had been presented with. Because today, Sherlock Holmes had faced demons of both the figurative and literal kind. But any additional questions he might have had about the paranormal was better left until after John had gotten some sleep.

Which left him with the other set of demons—his inner ones.

Now that Constance had opened the floodgates, Sherlock couldn't hold back his feelings for John. The array and amount of emotions would be dazzling, if it wasn't so simultaneously distressing. He wondered if the possession had fundamentally altered something in his body's chemistry or his neurochemistry.

He shouldn't want so badly. He shouldn't physically ache with the low burn of lust and desire.

Or Sherlock had become hopelessly addicted with just one kiss—one kiss that he had neither initiated or controlled.

The demon had done nothing to diminish Sherlock's senses when it attacked John's lips. Even after the shower and all the intervening hours since, John's taste still lingered on Sherlock's lips and tongue, as did the feel of John's fluttering eyelashes and the hefty weight of his arse in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock couldn't help but meticulously mull over and commit every detail to memory (especially as it was to be his one and only kiss with John).

Then that moment back at Milverton's house where they were pressed together in an almost embrace. He could tell himself it was for the case. He'd be lying.

Sherlock was standing at the foot of John's bed when he emerged from the memory. There it was again—his body  _doing_  and  _wanting_ things without explicit permission from his mind. He gingerly perched on the edge of the empty side of the bed (John always curled onto his right while protectively drawing his left shoulder in). By the light coming through the crack in the door, he studied the strong lines of John's clothed back. He could visibly trace all the contours of the muscles.

His hand hovered just centimeters away from John's shoulder blade when his flatmate flopped over, blue eyes open and staring up at Sherlock. He snatched his hand back abruptly and mentally cursed his lack of control.

"Sherlock, is something wrong?"

"Nothing."

"If nothing's wrong, why are you here?"

Why indeed?

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked.

"Why would I want to relive any of that? It's over, it's done with. I barely felt anything the demon did or anything that was done to it."

A lie that John would never be able to call him on. Constance ensured he felt all the same pains as it did—as well as all the same pleasures. It wanted him to feel everything he couldn't have. Desire and hot shame coursed through his blood. He wanted (so much to learn and explore; forbidden and tantalizing knowledge), but he shouldn't.

Not when he ruthlessly betrayed John's trust by doing so.

John, sleep ruffled and inexplicably affectionate, sat up and patted the vacant spot next to him. Sherlock took it a step further and climbed under the duvet as well. How many liberties would John allow him to take?

"Jesus, your feet are like ice!" John yelped.

His feet remained where they had fallen—pressed against John's warm and bare ankles. A thrill ran down his spine. John had gone to bed in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers.

Right, his mind now was going into "not good" territory.

"You're never to do that again." It took Sherlock several seconds to realize they were going to have that conversation about Faustian bargains John had promised. Although John's words were soft spoken, Sherlock could hear the anger and hurt kept under a lid.

"I would only be doing what you've considered in the past."

Before they left the flat, John had all but admitted aloud that he once contemplated trading his soul for Sherlock.

"I thought you were dead." The hurt outweighed the anger now—stretching John's voice painfully taut.

Would there ever come a day where they could bury the wounds opened by the Fall for good? John's face, half hidden in shadow, indicated it might be many years off.

"Just don't do it again. I'm not worth it."

Cold fury gripped Sherlock's heart tightly and squeezed until it felt wrung out. The words fell from his lips in an unstoppable torrent. "You are decidedly worth it, John Watson. I know I told you once that heroes don't exist, and I still believe that. But of all the people I have met, you've come the closest, John. You should listen to that demon. I'm not a good man. I've killed people and hurt dozens more. The world could have burned for all I cared. I—" something unnamed lodged in his lungs, obstructing his airway. "Didn't care. Caring is not an advantage."

"Christ, I'm no better—I'm really not. So don't put me on a fucking pedestal. Just don't."

"You don't understand," Sherlock insisted fervently. "I don't deserve your devotion."

_I don't deserve you._

John's dark blue eyes bore into him. "Tough luck, because that's not for you to decide. You need someone to watch your back, especially now that you've got us on the radar of the King of Hell. You  _need_ me."

_I do, even though I shouldn't. I do need you, John. More than I—_

"Sherlock?"

—c _ould have thought possible._

Sherlock clamped his jaw shut. There it was again—both his mind and body working in concert to betray him. "Disregard what I just said," he said hurriedly.

"I can't!" John threw off the covers and sprung to his feet. "You can't just say things like that and expect me not to react. I can't change the way I feel about you, Sherlock, but give me some credit. I'm doing my best to keep it under control. It's what I've been doing for months. If you want to stay friends and keep working cases together, you can't rub it in my face. You can't crawl my covers and not expect me to get ideas. The least you can do is not be cruel and torment me this way!" By the end of his rant, John was shouting with his face flushed red.

Sherlock should have seen it earlier. He'd like to think he would have if his world hadn't just been turned upside down with the discovery of the paranormal. John Watson was already attracted to him, and had been for a long while now.

"You said that demons lie," Sherlock began.

Even in the dim, John visibly paled.

Sherlock continued to keep the other man from interrupting. "But you weren't referring to what he said about you. You meant what the demon said about me—about how I wasn't a good person. You were trying to reassure me."

"Sherlock—"

"This entire time I was convinced you were trying to give me a way out of our awkward situation. I thought you were 'letting me down gently' as they put it. You... You have feelings for me." His breath caught in his throat. His world was expanding again—becoming impossibly large.

The silence pressed in around them. There was always (shouldn't be, but the probability existed) the chance that Sherlock was wrong.

John grimaced before speaking, "I do."

"I've been an idiot."

"You have?"

"Yes."

John sat back down on the bed, fingertips nervously skirting over the covers. "Sherlock, is it true then? What the demon said about you having feelings?"

He closed his eyes briefly before opening them and gazing straight into John's eyes—so blue and so dark. In them, the chasm that separated them had begun to close. For the first time in months, John was knowable again. John was no longer hiding. Not anymore.

Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes was a coward.

Sherlock breathed quietly and hurled himself across the metaphorical rift between them. "Yes."

John licked his lips and said, "Good, that's good." Pause. "I would like to kiss you now."

He wasn't sure why John bothered asking, but he nodded dumbly (as if he could do anything but agree). Then he (brave John, righteous John, Sherlock's John who went to war in Afghanistan and across London's streets and Britain's countryside) closed the gap between them by pressing his body and lips against Sherlock.

The second time was so much better. Because John was alive—warm—willing—cared for him—was willing to admit it. It was better. Even if it seemed like the world was still spinning out of control.

It was good.

He felt high and light-headed when John pulled away. John tried to keep a straight face but failed. Sherlock could relate. Like him, John's bloodstream must be swimming with the same hormonal cocktail (adrenaline for the racing heart and fluttering pulse—oxytocin to reduce fears and increase contentment—dopamine to reward and reinforce behavior). He shouldn't feel this happy—this unburdened.

(But he has John.)

Sherlock cleared his throat, battling to keep his giddiness in check. "So that was what you were doing while I was away? Exorcising demons?" He asked, trying to keep his tone as measured as possible.

John wore a ridiculously cheeky grin that made him look years younger. Sherlock's heart (already too large to fit in his chest cavity) swelled at the sight.

"Among other things. Problem?"

They stared at each other and John turned his head slightly, consumed by a sudden fit of high-pitched giggles. It was a sound that Sherlock knew well, but had missed in these last few months together. The mirth was infectious and he couldn't help himself.

Sherlock grabbed John's shirt and meshed his lips against the other man's with their joy smothered between the meeting of flesh.

No, it was better than good. It was exhilarating.


	14. Late April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are so many new things to explore: about the supernatural— about John. Sherlock doesn't think he'll ever be bored again.

There were no more kisses that night or morning. But there were questions (mostly from Sherlock) and there were answers (almost entirely from John) as they lay warm and safe next to each other under the duvet. John had no idea when he drifted off, but he remembered a finger of sunlight and the blue over Skye when he and Mary first arrived there years ago.

He was alone when he finally woke well after noon. The spot next to him, not chilled but cooled enough, told him that Sherlock left a while ago.

John's anxiety kept him from rushing through his usual morning routine. For one, he could hear how absolutely still the house was. Mrs. Hudson wasn't due to return until tomorrow and Sherlock... His bedroom door was closed and locked. The madman never bothered to lock it unless he was inside and didn't want to be disturbed or unless there was a particularly volatile experiment on the other side.

No reply came when he shouted through the wood. But Sherlock often slept like the dead when he actually slept.

To avoid obsessing over the matter, John busied himself with the living room. Mrs. Hudson would have a fit if she came back and saw the mess. He piled the things from their shattered coffee table onto their already overburdened writing desk and binned the broken pieces of wood. He also made sure the devil's trap drawn on the underside of the rug remained intact. He didn't fancy having to use it again anytime soon, but vigilance always pays off.

Scrubbing the vomit and wet spots in the rug served as all-too-unpleasant reminders of how close he came to losing Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't emerge from his room all afternoon.

John stamped down his desire to just kick in the door on several occasions. The fierce intensity of his own protective streak shouldn't surprise him anymore, except that it did. And when the doorbell rang around 5:30 in the evening, he almost ran upstairs for his gun first.

But it was only Mary, double parked by the curb with a trunk full of reference materials.

"I'm guessing your Sherlock is full of questions and you're getting tired of answering them. Tell him to read a book instead, yeah?" She said with a lopsided grin.

In response, he pulled her into a firm embrace before she could even step through the door.

It took them each two trips up the stairs to get everything out. Together, they sorted out the last of the mess and hoovered. He could sense Mary's burning curiosity, but as always, she held off until he broached the subject first. It was a refreshing change of pace, especially considering who his flatmate (partner?) was.

"How is he?" She asked.

John glanced beyond the kitchen. "He's been in bed all day, I think. He's taking it well enough. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

Another welcome change from Sherlock's abrasive lack of manners. She followed him to the kettle, which John flicked on before beginning his search for clean mugs. He found two hiding near the back of the cupboard behind a box of dishwasher detergent (they didn't have a dishwashing machine—John really didn't want to know what was actually inside the box).

"Does this mean you're finally coming out of retirement?" As she spoke, her attention appeared entirely focused on scrutinizing the content of their fridge through the closed door.

"It's not really retirement if I had planned to come back all along."

"With a new partner, no less."

"I don't even want to think about what Sherlock might be like out in the field. Some ghosts are already pure vengeance, but I'd bet you he'd still find a way to piss them off more."

Mary's voice dropped several registers when she next spoke—in a not-terrible approximation of Sherlock's baritone, "You came back from beyond the grave in search of vengeance and you can't even identify your murderer with certainty? Were you just a dullard in life, or did decomposition rot your brain too?"

John laughed until his sides hurt. "Mary, Sherlock does not talk like that!"

"Uh no, that's exactly what he sounds like."

By the time he regained his composure, the water was ready.

"But in all seriousness, would you take him on a job?"

John mulled over the possibility in between sips of tea. "Maybe, it's not like Sherlock knows how to take no as an answer. I don't think I could stop him if he really tried. I tried to leave him behind when I went after the demon, and look at what happened."

"I figured, but your Sherlock wouldn't be the usual sort of hunter," then she looked up abruptly as an expression of horror dawned across her face. "Don't you dare tell him about my spellbooks. And if he breaks into my house, I will shoot him a little."

"How do you shoot someone 'a little'?"

"Aim for something non-vital, like a toe or two. I'm sure I'll figure it out when the time comes."

"Mary, you must know by now that I prefer my flatmates in one, whole piece." John smirked.

"It'd teach him a bloody valuable lesson. Isn't that what got him into trouble in the first place? Breaking into other people's flats without backup?"

It was impossible to push away the image of Sherlock's eyes colored black as night and the cruel smile that accompanied them. John worked twice as hard to swallow that mouthful of tea.

"So, you ready to tell me the whole story?" she asked.

They moved back into the living room where John recounted the previous day's events. Mary stayed quiet most of the time, just nodding in the appropriate spots. There were parts like the things that Sherlock said while possessed and afterwards that John left out. If Mary noticed that his retelling was a bit sparse, she chose not to point out the holes in his narrative. She was far more worried about this Crowley character.

"We're lucky to get him back at all, aren't we?"

"You are. Things could have gone south all too easily," she reached over and squeezed his good shoulder. "And it didn't because you have great instincts, John. It's what makes you so good at the job. So believe me when I say a lot of people are going to be glad to hear you're back."

-x-x-x-

Sherlock had slept (his body so eager to remind him of the physical trauma suffered the day before), until he woke up with a pesky problem between his legs and between his sheets. He glared balefully at the insistent erection. Really, he wasn't a bloody teenager anymore.

He sighed and his head fell back against the pillow.

At the very least, it wasn't nocturnal emissions.

Manual stimulation: the most effective way of taking care of this problem. But it felt like giving in, and his body could not be allowed to continue its single-minded tyranny. Sherlock stared at the ceiling and willed it to  _go away_. The endeavor took far longer than it ought to have. Recollection of how John felt and tasted last night certainly didn't help the matter.

(Sherlock thought he might have been drunk—drunk on the soft noises issuing from John's mouth, his warm and chapped lips. Stubble burn from John's five-o'clock shadow—real and visceral—)

The cold light of day cast long and dark shadows with his doubts.

So Sherlock was already wide awake when Mary arrived. He recognized the shuffle of her steps (measured and even like John's and with an almost military cadence, but more light-footed) from previous occasions she'd been in the flat. They carried something heavy up: books.

He waited for the usual messy emotions toward anyone that John elected to spend time with to rear their heads. And they did, rushing out with an adolescent eagerness that made Sherlock wince. His tentative claim on John's affection appeared to have exacerbated the symptoms, rather than ameliorated them.

The sun soon set and Sherlock didn't know how much time he had spent trying to eavesdrop on their indistinct conversations. The walls may be thin, but their shared words were too quiet to fully overcome the distance.

The box of clove cigarettes still sat where he left them yesterday. Neither his usual brand nor kind (from a case), they'd have to do in a pinch. He propped open his bedroom window to reveal the dark night outside (apparently teeming with _things_ he didn't understand—yet). He regarded it with the same disdain he felt for Anderson's forensics or Mycroft's pretend omnipotence. He would spend whatever time necessary to learn its secrets.

The sweet, cloying smoke coiled around Sherlock's head like a serpent. He allowed it to linger for a moment before batting it away. No sound issued from the direction of the living room, meaning Mary might have left without him noticing.

Maybe.

Except the steps presently approaching his room belonged to neither John nor Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock could hear her hesitance in the pause outside his door. Scritch-scratch, the sound of a pick and a wrench slotting effortlessly into the tumbler—a well-practiced hand. Sherlock made no attempt to bar entrance. He simply pulled his housecoat tighter to ward off the chill from the window, cigarette dangling from one hand and ashes smudged on the sill.

The door swung open to Mary straightening back up to her full height and gingerly wrapping up her tools.

"Where's John?" He asked and took another puff.

"Out to the shops. Apparently everything in your fridge is past due." She threw back her shoulders before finally entering the room. Her openly curious gaze swept across every visible surface before settling on Sherlock's cigarette. "It's cleaner in here than I would have thought."

His room was still a mess from the demon's ransacking. Sherlock hummed quietly in agreement.

With three long steps, she closed the gap between them. He maintained a bored expression, not bothered by her attempt to discern his mental state.

Her lips thinned before speaking, "John says you know everything now."

"Everything is debatable."

She smirked, "Couldn't deduce it all, huh?"

Sherlock's lips curled in disdain. "I can hardly be faulted for failing to predict something that wasn't previously within the realm of consideration."

For a moment, she looked like she was going to continue nettling him. But it soon passed. "Welcome to the fold, Sherlock."

"I sincerely hope there isn't some antiquated initiation ritual."

"I should say yes on principle, but you wouldn't follow through even if it was true. But I do have something for you, hold out your hand."

When he didn't comply straight away, she pulled a face that uncomfortably reminded him of his mother. What she dropped in his hands appeared to be a leather-bound journal. The inside was littered with numerous handwritten passages and rough sketches, and the pages themselves stiff and yellow with age.

She continued, "It's one of the Morstan family journals, a homemade monster hunting manual of sorts. I lent it to John when he first started out."

"What is your purpose in giving it to me now?"

"It's a loan, you tosser. You're going to memorize that from cover to cover. I won't have you putting John in danger just because you refused to learn the basics."

"You don't approve of me knowing." Though Sherlock was scanning through a passage about werewolves, his attention remained glued to Mary.

The skin over her jaw tightened, revealing a disapproving tic in her right cheek. "Honestly? No. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have watching my back on the job less. You're reckless, Mister Holmes, and that's what gets people killed in this line of business."

He snorted and heat from his smoke filled his nostrils. Without even trying, Sherlock fitted the new data to his pre-existing profile of Mary Morstan and pieced together the complete picture for the first time. "You brought John into this world. This was not something he knew before you."

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "If you're trying to make me feel guilty about putting John in danger, I urge you to look in the mirror first. John needed the job then and he's bloody good at it. God knows our side can always use the extra hand."

"And which side is that, Miss Morstan?" Sherlock was ultimately self-serving and would swear no allegiance but to his own. He didn't appreciate the idea of a John with divided loyalties.

(But John had already chosen him once, he'd surely do that again, wouldn't he?)

Her eyes narrowed, as if she had read and judged his altruism as lacking. She probably did. "Humanity, Mister Holmes. They say that God helps those who help themselves. But I've always found the opposite to be true, we help ourselves because God won't. He abandoned us long ago."

Sherlock had never put much stock in the concept of God. And just because he had now discovered that demons and such also wandered the earth didn't mean he was about to start either.

"I have no intention of harming John." Sherlock declared. Between criminals and monsters, he knew better than to make promises that couldn't be kept. He would never be able to shield John from danger completely, and neither would John allow Sherlock to treat him like a damsel-in-distress.

Her stare remained hard, emphasized by the stubborn set of her chin. She had never tried to hide the fact that she didn't like him anymore than he could stand her. But she was important to John. That was one fact certain to not change any time in the near future.

"Mary, John is... essential." He willed her to understand.

Silence invaded the empty space in their conversation and she remained frustratingly unmoved by his declaration. Before he could despair for her, the epiphany became evident in the widening of her blue eyes and a stuttered gasp.

"Oh, oh, you and John—"

"Let's not embarrass ourselves by giving voice to the startlingly obvious."

She nodded. Her lips caught between a pleased smile and palpable concern. "I suppose congratulations are in order. We both know John doesn't need anyone to defend him because he does fine on his own. But just remember. I have guns, lots of them and knives and machetes, and I'm rather handy with them."

Sherlock looked down at the journal in his hand. When he considered the possibilities objectively, Mary Morstan was not the worst choice in partners. She might even be an asset—or even an ally in time. "I understand perfectly."

She started at the sound of the downstairs door closing. John's impending return sucked more bravado from her stance. Her gaze remained fixed on him as he stubbed the cigarette out and threw the butt out the window. She was waiting for him to eject her from the room and lock the door again.

Sherlock had no plan of doing so. As if he would ever be that predictable.

"Mary?" John called from the kitchen.

She waited another beat before answering with one eyebrow lifted in challenge, "In here. His majesty's finally awake."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was hardly going to dignify that with a response.

John shuffled into view, full of uncharacteristic timidity. "Sherlock, you're awake. Um, that's good. I got take-out, you need to eat as well."

"If I must," Sherlock sighed. "And I suppose you might as well join us, Mary. There are some questions maybe you can answer for me."

The tentative smile that John returned was like the warm glow of the sun—like a strip of magnesium burning up in a flare of hot white. Sherlock cared little for humanity at large, but he cared more than a bit for John. Perhaps that would be enough.

-x-x-x-

The police arrested Charles Augustus Milverton in Dover, trying to cross the channel into France. No one believed his tall tales about demon possession. Three days later, Gareth Kingston's mangled corpse turned up on the side of the A1 torn to shreds and identified solely through DNA analysis. Police speculated that it was retribution for Kingston failing to deliver on the plan to kidnap and ransom his wife.

John knew better though. Hellhounds were a nasty, nasty way to go.

The day after, they were visited by Lady Blackwell dressed in the dour black of mourning. But her back was straight and her face unlined with grief. She handed Sherlock a check with a ludicrous amount of zeros and thanked them for saving her life. She had wanted to pay them more, but Sherlock refused and extracted the promise of a favor instead.

"I must go now. I'm afraid I still have many preparations to make on Gareth's behalf." She wore a strained expression as she spoke.

John walked her down to the door. As they shook hands, John said, "If you ever have any other problems, don't hesitate to give us a call."

"Would that be problems of the mundane or the supernatural sort?" She asked.

John thought about it for a moment, shook his head, and answered, "Either, we'd be happy to be of assistance for either."

Although, they weren't going to be adding "consulting hunters" to their business cards anytime soon.

 

-x-x-x-

Being in a relationship (or whatever  _this_ was) with Sherlock was every bit as difficult as John had imagined. Having to compete with Mary's books for Sherlock's attention, on the other hand, was downright disheartening.

They didn't talk about their changed status. In some ways, little about their interactions changed. Sherlock was still demanding and selfish when it suited him—which was more often than not. John still probably let him get away with too much.

Yet in the week since the Milverton case, they had kissed a grand total of three times. Not since he was a teenager had John felt so nervous and wrecked. Each encounter always left him weak in the knees and half-hard.

There was no denying that he craved more. But Sherlock neither provided for nor denied him.

Even though he wasn't overly demonstrative, John had never thought of himself as meek when it came to matters of the heart. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, a man he had trouble keeping up with on the best of days. A tiny bit of trepidation was entirely appropriate.

Both he and Sherlock enjoyed the kissing. (At least he hoped to God that Sherlock did.) God, kissing Sherlock was like nothing else John had done in life before. It was better than that moment right before parachuting out of an aircraft in mid-flight. It was better than the first time he hit a target in the bull's-eye back in basic. It was almost as good as that precious memory of doubling over with laughter in 221B for the first time. Sherlock kissed like a man possessed, completely and utterly focused. During those times, John could believe he was the only person/thing that warranted Sherlock's attention.

Yet it was John alone who initiated the contact each time.

And just when John started to think Sherlock had forgotten (or worse, had lost interest), their eyes would meet from across the room in a heated tangle. They brushed past each other more often and Sherlock always planted a hand on John's hip as he moved past. The spot burned and tingling for hours afterwards, like a hot brand seared into his skin.

John held his breath and waited for something to give.

-x-x-x-

"What's all this?"

John started, hating Sherlock for being able to move so silently. His hunting gear was spread across his bed. He had moved everything from Mary's to the flat and was taking inventory when Sherlock interrupted.

John smirked as he began field stripping his secondary pistol, a Sig Sauer P226R. "You know perfectly well."

Sherlock crossed over the threshold into the room. His presence sucked almost all of the air from the room, but John didn't allow his hands to falter. But when Sherlock's attention was fixed so intensely on him... The task became more difficult.

"Your hunting kit," Sherlock said. His voice pitched so low that it registered like a blow to John's gut.

"Shall I quiz you?" John teased as he tried to ignore the clean, pressed lines of Sherlock's suit.

(He wanted to ruin them.)

Sherlock approached the bed and palmed the single-barrel shotgun. "For use with modified rock salt rounds to repel spirits." His hand drifted over to the stack of ammunition, pointing to one particular wooden box, "Custom silver bullet for werewolves and skinwalkers," then to another, "Cold iron for fey, though it'll only wound, not kill."

Sherlock proceeded to go through each item in John's arsenal, naming it and the creatures it was meant to kill. And he was magnificent: all fire in his eyes but sharp, cold intellect. Maybe John could climb astride of Sherlock and swallow the air from between his lips, because he ached to learn what that contradiction might taste like.

John didn't realize he was staring at Sherlock's lips until the other man callously invaded his personal space with an arrogant smirk. He was helplessly pinned under Sherlock's attention and he knew he had given far too much away again. But would Sherlock take the initiative? This time? He refused to be the lovesick fool at every turn.

"John."

A shudder of anticipation raced down his spine as he leaned forward. Sherlock's smirk widened ever so slightly in response.

"Take me with you."

John blinked owlishly, not sure if he'd heard right. "Wait, you mean like on a job? One of my jobs?"

Sherlock's curls bounced as he nodded enthusiastically. "Don't be thick, John. Of course, I mean on a hunt. What is the point of acquiring all this knowledge if I don't get to put it into practice? I need to see."

John took a deep breath. He should have been surprised Sherlock hadn't asked any sooner. This was the forgone conclusion, right? Sherlock would have never been content with just Mary's books alone. But John wanted to say that it was too soon. There was a world of difference between what was in the books and what it was like to face down an actual monster. Except Sherlock had already faced down demons for his first time. Hell, he even deduced the sodding King of Hell.

Sherlock pressed his fingertips against the tip of his chin, and the look of excitement was the sort usually reserved for serial killers and criminal masterminds. It made his flatmate look like the child that John sometimes accused him of being. There had been no proclamations of boredom, even though they hadn't taken any cases since Milverton. In fact, Sherlock had even turned down a case from Lestrade and two other potential ones from private clients. John, at the very least, was getting anxious sitting around and doing nothing.

"I'll ring Mary and see if she's got anything for us."

"Excellent," Sherlock beamed and turned to leave.

Had John been played again?

He rose to his feet and planted one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to prevent his escape. The other man froze immediately under his touch, prompting a small smidgen of satisfaction for John. "I'm serious, Sherlock. You have to follow my lead on this. You can't go haring off on your own. Throttling wouldn't even begin to describe what I'll do to you if you try and sneak specimens or anything else back to the flat for testing. It's not just for your safety, but also for mine and Mrs. Hudson's and everyone else's. Are we clear?"

Sherlock pivoted on his heels again to face John. He hesitated before cupping John's cheek with one hand. John's breath stuttered in response to the unexpected and undeniably affectionate gesture. A thumb stroked a solid brush across the ridge of John's cheek. "John, your well-being has and will always be a top priority."

Then he was gone, leaving John dazed and panting.

-x-x-x-

What was supposed to be a simple haunting turned out to be something much more. Exorcising one ghost turned into exorcising two more and then into foiling a real estate developer's plot to drive down property prices in an area recently re-zoned for commercial development.

Getting in Henry Heston's office building took almost no effort. The security guard in the lobby barely even glanced at the ID card that Sherlock had lifted from Heston's flat. The lift ride up to the twenty-seventh floor was blanketed in silence, except for the rhythmic sound of Mary's gun holster banging against the buckles on her jacket every time she shifted from one foot to the other.

"Excuse me, you shouldn't be in here!" Heston had protested angrily when they first stepped into the office.

John brought up the rear of their group, locking the door behind him as he entered.

"We know about the Reaper," Mary announced nonchalantly. "It's all a bit Scooby-Doo, don't you think?"

Irritation welled inside Sherlock's chest and his body strained forward to intervene. John caught his eye and shook his head. Sherlock scowled and forced himself to still.

"Get out!" Heston screamed.

She continued, "There's only one way to play this, Henry. Give us the amulet. You don't want to fight us." She brushed back her jacket to not-so-subtly reveal her gun.

It was both refreshing and disturbing that Sherlock couldn't tell how serious she was about carrying out said threat. Better not to underestimate her though. If her ethical code was anything like John's, Heston would be considered fair game from the first moment he used the Reaper to remove a competitor from the picture.

"Or you'll what?" Heston sneered in return. "Turn me in to the police? You can't prove I've done anything wrong."

John narrowed his eyes, carefully to keep a lid on his anger as he growled, "You killed three people so you could turn a larger profit."

"It's business," Heston spat. "And I recognize you two, you're those queer detectives. I'll have the both of you buried in lawsuits before the night is through. In fact, I can have all three of you arrested for trespassing and breaking and entering!" He reached for the phone on his desk.

Sherlock stepped around the desk until he stood on the same side as Heston. The other man froze in the midst of dialing, giving Sherlock the opportunity to pluck the receiver out of his hand and place it back in its cradle. Behind him, he sensed both John and Mary reaching for their weapons and drawing a collective breath. Heston tried to move back, but he was trapped between his desk chair and Sherlock himself.

"You're wrong if you believe we won't find any evidence of your illegal activities. This can hardly be your first attempt to save your company from complete financial insolvency. I'd say you've been embezzling from it for the last five years, which was fine and all until recent economic downturn."

Sherlock stepped closer and lightly fingered the notched lapel of Heston's suit. "I doubt you had the good sense to save for a rainy day. That much is obvious from your taste in office decor and the state of your flat. But now the corporate coffers are empty, and you have to answer to your partners and investors. This magic," he looked to Mary for confirmation and she nodded. "Is a matter of last resort. If I called in an anonymous tip to the SFO (1), I'm sure their forensic accountants will unearth something to charge you with."

Heston violently jerked back, sending his chair crashing to the floor. "If you leave now, I may not set the creature on you."

"Lies, you have no intention of letting us live. But without this," Sherlock held up what he had pickpocketed from Heston's inner pocket. The medallion hanging on the end of the chain was substantially heftier than he originally guessed. "You'll have to get your own hands dirty."

"How did you?" Heston patted down the front of his suit jacket. His face went deathly pale when fished out the knickknack from his desktop, which Sherlock had used to displace the pendant's weight in his inner pocket. " _When_ did you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and directed his attention to Mary. "This is the loci of control, correct?"

She nodded again.

Sherlock palmed the object thoughtfully for a few seconds, cataloging what he could (iron-cast but silver-plated, iconography appeared Christian, no other inferences to be drawn due to limitations of expertise in subject area). Only when Heston made an abortive movement to take it back did Sherlock toss it to John, who deftly caught it with one hand while the other still gripped the handle of his gun. Mary jumped into action, mumbling an incantation in Latin that would supposedly sever the Reaper's bond to Heston. Other measures would have to be taken later to truly neutralize the medallion's power.

Heston squeaked, face suddenly going completely white as a sheet. "Who is he? When did he come in?" His finger (his entire body) quivered as he pointed at the empty space between John and Mary.

Except that the space wasn't nearly as empty as it should be.

Mary spoke with little pity in her voice, "Only those who are at death's door can perceive the Reaper."

Except that Sherlock could see the dour man dressed in black with an unblinking gaze fixed squarely on him.

"No!" Heston roared and flung himself at his desk. His hand visibly skittered across the underside in search of something. Sherlock's mind finally kicked into gear at the telltale click of a hidden compartment. Gun—he deduced seconds before Heston pulled the weapon out of his secret drawer. Bad, very bad. Sherlock was at point blank range, where even the worst aim could still do considerable damage.

And the bloody Reaper stood at the edge of the desk now, breathing down his neck like a literal angel of death.

"Sherlock, get down!"

Even as Sherlock moved to comply, he was struck by the thought that the Reaper was blocking John's line of sight. He hit the floor with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Two shots (each from two different weapons with different acoustic profiles) pierced through the night. Heston's gun landed softly on the carpet next to where Sherlock lay, then followed by Heston's twitching body. One bullet had found its way into Heston's upper abdomen (painful—debilitating—but not instantly fatal). The second bullet, a kill shot, left a neat crater of pulverized flesh in the center of his forehead.

And yet, he was still undeniably alive.

(Wrong, wrong,  _wrong._ Sherlock knew from Budapest that wasn't how headshots worked.)

A shadow fell over then as Heston's terror-stricken eyes stared up at Sherlock for an impossible moment. The Reaper daintily crouched down on the other side of the twitching should-be corpse, shuffling to avoid the ever expanding pool of blood staining the carpet. It—he made eye contact with Sherlock before touching one finger to Heston's temple and extinguishing the light in the man's eyes. Sherlock blinked rapidly, then the Reaper, the body, and the blood evidence vanished.

Not even the impressions left in the carpet by Heston's expensive wingtips remained behind.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

He rose shakily to his feet and took five steps back with adrenaline still rushing through his veins. John's warm grip on his elbow wrenched his attention away from the now clean floor, freeing him from the loop his brain had been stuck in. He relaxed into the faint touches and let John's concern wash over him.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? Look at me." John's face was flushed with color and lined with fear.

"You aimed for his head." His voice sounded curiously distant.

"Of course I did. He was going to kill you."

"You can't possibly know that with certainty."

"It's not a risk I'll take."

Sherlock draped himself over John in response, waiting until the tension bled away. When it finally did, John brought his arms up and returned the embrace. Sherlock's heart fluttered inside his ribcage, no longer just from adrenaline. He could do this now. John was his.

Mary cleared her throat gently, as if hesitant to interrupt. John reluctantly tried to break the embrace first, but Sherlock clung for just a little longer. He only let go after John squeezed a hand between their pressed bodies and pushed him back.

"The body's gone." She pointed out.

"The Reaper took it."

"How do you know?"

"I saw him." Seeing the look of dawning alarm on John's face, Sherlock added, "I believe he was attempting to warn me about Heston's hidden weapon."

"Well, at least we don't have to deal with the body," she mumbled as she retrieved the fallen gun. "Wish it was always this easy to get rid of the evidence. Let's take care of the surveillance footage so we can get out of here."

On the drive back to Baker Street, Sherlock and John sat in the backseat with knees pressed against each other. Everything was quiet except for the gentle patter of rain falling against the window and the quiet lull of their collective breathing. Several times, Sherlock caught Mary watching them in the rear-view mirror. The gaze, while not challenging, was assessing.

Although she never indicated it out loud, tonight had been a test. Sherlock liked to think he passed. He didn't need Mary's approval, but John respected her opinions too much to overlook them.

Sherlock could almost admit that Mary accompanying them had been for the better.

Almost.

Sherlock didn't have to like Mary Morstan to appreciate the fact that she was competent (so few people were). She was a fantastic shot. Tonight had proven that. But where Sherlock needed time to sight a target to hit it precisely in its weak-point (sniper focus, John had once commented), Mary did so on instinct. After years of practice, she used guns much in the same way as John did—as an extension of herself.

And it wasn't until now that he recognized exactly what he saw in her that reminded him so much of John: a soldier's mentality. But it was tempered by her moral compass and her sense of compassion. She and John were probably more alike than either of them realized. It was no wonder to Sherlock why they were drawn to each other in the first place.

It was also difficult to reconcile the fascination of watching John and Mary work so well in tandem with his simultaneous (irrational) jealousy over the same fact. Sherlock rested his weight completely against John's side—their shared body heat making the inside of the car blazing hot. He shivered anyway.

This was John, his John, who refused to succumb and was regularly conquering new areas inconceivable to Sherlock or to most of the insipid human population. John was magnificent. John was a marvel. Tonight's event had cemented that fact.

Sherlock hadn't known he could ever want one person this much.

-x-x-x-

Without saying anything, Sherlock shot out of the car as soon as it slowed to a complete stop. By the time John has unbuckled his seatbelt, the man had already vanished inside while leaving the front door swinging in the breeze.

Mary turned in the driver's seat to face him fully. She scrunched her face thoughtfully before saying, "Sherlock...all things considered, he didn't do badly."

"He gave us the real estate link."

"We would have figured it out sooner or later."

"But how many more people would have died before we did?"

She winced, but silently conceded the point.

John sighed. "I better go check on him." As he climbed out of the car, he glanced at the second floor, which still showed no sign of the living room lights being turned on. Had Sherlock gone straight to bed? Which was probably a good idea after such a long night.

"Be careful," Mary's soft-spoken words gently jostled him out of his musings.

"Always am," John replied—even though it was a patent lie. Between the army, Sherlock, and the hunting, he was almost certain he'd never played it safe with anything in his life. Right now, he wasn't sure what she was trying to caution him about.

As soon as John entered the flat, he spotted Sherlock lingering by the windows, where he was silhouetted by the light from the street lamps outside. John stepped forward and stumbled momentarily before grabbing the door frame for balance. The dark amorphous lump sitting at his feet finally resolved into Sherlock's crumpled coat after several seconds of squinting.

He scowled, "Sherlock, don't leave your things lying around."

In response, Sherlock sniffed loudly and with audible disdain. "I doubt there's a dry cleaner in London competent enough to get the smell of kerosene and decay out. The blood stains alone will raise alarm." Fabric rustled as he began peeling off his suit jacket.

John snickered to himself, treading carefully around the mess on their floor as he crossed the room. "I did tell you that suits were not recommended attire for a job."

"And what would you have me wear then? Some off-the-rack plaid monstrosity? Perhaps top the ensemble off with a denim jacket? You'll forgive me if I don't take your sartorial advice, John."

"Fine, fine, no need to get all catty about it."

"Spare me the..."

It was at that moment, standing just inches away from Sherlock, that John noticed the fabric sliding off the other man's arm (too light in color and in weight to be a suit jacket) was giving way to inches (and more inches) of bare skin. The dim lighting accentuated all of Sherlock's dips and hollows—the straight lines and slight curves of his tall, lean body. Words and any thought not attending to the crest of Sherlock's hips peeking out over his waistband abandoned John completely.

He swallowed, throat convulsing as his own trousers grew tighter.

Sherlock's shirt fell away, landing on the floor next to his other discarded clothing. John both thanked and cursed God when Sherlock didn't immediately undo his trousers next. At the very least, he was grateful for the darkness enveloping them like a shroud, because there was no other way he would be able to hide his body's interest for long.

And not for the first time, John mused over just how not done  _this_ was. He had shot another man tonight, and his best/boyfriend was more worried about his stupidly expensive wardrobe, and John felt absolutely bowled over by lust. It wasn't as if John hadn't thought about it before (sex with Sherlock that is, not the killing part), but this was still new territory. Definitely not done.

He wasn't sure when Sherlock had stopped talking. He'd only realized it after Sherlock started again.

"You're staring," Sherlock said with an almost tremble in his voice.

John licked his lips in preparation of stating denial—a long-practiced reflex after all these months. But he didn't have to hide it anymore? Sherlock knew now. Sherlock even welcomed the attention now? Instead he said, "We should both go to bed," then mentally kicked himself before adding, "Our individual—"

Sherlock leaned in and stole the rest of John's sentence from between his lips. John froze, hands straining to reach up and grab the other man. But he was afraid of how Sherlock might react.

Sherlock pressed his body closer, until his body heat bled through all the layers of cloth still shielding John's torso. A hint of tongue threatened to drive common sense from the room (but it'd be so good, wouldn't it?). And John wanted—wants—will want everything (bury one hand in Sherlock's curls and plant the other around his waist to caress that jutting hip bone, make him gasp and moan, have him on his—).

He turned his head away, then making the mistake of planting a hand on Sherlock's bare chest to maintain some semblance of space. "Wait, Sherlock—"

The skin underneath his palm positively quivered and a realization struck John. "You're nervous."

Sherlock almost snarled in response. "It's irrational, not logical, but I still feel apprehensive."

"It's okay. I'm nervous too." With that quiet admission, John felt the storm under Sherlock's skin subside. Then he recalled a question he had asked Mrs. Hudson so seemingly long ago. Back then he had just been curious. Well, he still was, but he now dreaded the answer whether it went one way or the other. "Have you ever been with anyone, anyone at all?"

You could practically hear the gears turn inside Sherlock's head. Even more worrying was the distance—though not physical in nature—that seemed to have appeared between them.

"Yes, I am not a virgin in the technical sense."

"But?"

"I... have no experience with men."

"But you are attracted to men?"

"No, just you—and Victor many years ago."

"Women then?" Not exactly what John would have guessed, but it appeared that "girlfriends: not my area" came from a place of genuine experience.

"A woman," Sherlock corrected.

"The Woman?"

The seconds dragged on like an eternity and John began regretting asking more and more by the second.

"No, someone else," Sherlock finally answered.

A breath of air rushed out in relief. John knew that his intense distrust (dislike) of Irene Adler was irrational—downright petty given the fact that she was also dead. But this wasn't a part of Sherlock that John was keen on sharing with anyone, much less the Woman. Beyond knowing that it wasn't Irene, John had no urge to push Sherlock to reveal more than he already had. Maybe one day he will learn about this woman, her name, and who she was to Sherlock.

"You do understand why I asked, don't you?" John lifted one hand and caressed Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock did lean into the touch ever so slightly that John might have missed it if he wasn't looking for it. "You worry about my ability to make fully informed choices regarding the new nature of our relationship—whether because of inexperience or because of the nature of the catalytic event that set that change into motion. You worry that I'm not well-equipped to understand my own feelings and  _urges_."

John winced at the physical force placed behind the words "feelings" and "urges."

"None of which is necessary, I assure you. Over the last week, I have taken extensive inventory of myself and I have cataloged and dissected my every reaction towards you. I am not compromised by the discovery of the supernatural, neither am I changed in any way as a result of the demon's intrusion. I am as I always was, John, only now armed with additional knowledge of what exists in the world. My feelings for you are of no one but myself." Sherlock bent forward until their foreheads touched—until they inhaled and exhaled the same air.

Of course, Sherlock would see him more clearly than he saw himself.

"Uh," John started with a mouth full of cotton and his heart in his throat. "That's good. That's very good."

There was just enough light to illuminate the upward quirk of Sherlock's heart-shaped lips.

"And this?" John pressed a chaste kiss against those lips. "Is okay?"

Sherlock sighed loudly in exasperation. "Yes, did I not say so as much? Really, John, I know you can be slo—"

John really didn't want to listen to Sherlock insult him when there were obviously better things to occupy their time with. God, it felt so good to be able to shut Sherlock up like this. He took his hand off Sherlock's warm and inviting skin and buried it in his hair instead. The actual meeting of lips was a bit harder to coordinate. Kissing Sherlock could be like a logic puzzle, on the account of the man being so ridiculously tall. But they managed with some maneuvering, tippy-toes, and bending. John's erection, which had flagged somewhat during their previous conversation, was also showing renewed interest in the proceedings.

John licked the contours of Sherlock's mouth before dipping into the seam, marveling at how a man with an infamously razor-sharp tongue could have such soft lips in contrast. He poured all the passion he could muster into the kiss, and he was rewarded by the slight whimper that escaped Sherlock. But Sherlock always gave as good as he got, never letting his inexperience get in the way of engaging enthusiastically.

Damn, he was a quick learner too.

When Sherlock tore his lips away, John was left dazed and bereft. But the man's hands quickly returned and started pulling at his jacket. "Off!" Sherlock growled in frustration. "Too much clothing."

John found it hard to tell if he felt light-headed because of the kiss or because of all the blood rushing south at once. But he had to agree with Sherlock. He was wearing far too much clothing. He yanked his jacket back, but his arms were caught in the sleeves. John swore and cursed while Sherlock practically tore the jacket apart to disentangle him. It soon joined the rest of Sherlock's clothes on the floor. Next came John's shirt, which had buttons!

Buttons! Surely, tiny buttons with their little holes were the invention of some demon.

Sherlock batted his hands away with visible annoyance. "Stop getting in the way."

John undid Sherlock's fly in retaliation, and the other man's briefly fumbled with the last button on John's shirt. The smug sense of satisfaction that came from tripping up Sherlock Holmes didn't last as his bad shoulder complained at the way Sherlock wrestled him out of said shirt. Everything else became a blur—of skin against skin, mouth against mouth, hands shoving their pants and trousers down to release their aching cocks, and biting nips because there weren't enough hands to touch  _everything_ ( _everywhere_ ).

John should slow down. He wanted to slow down and savor it all and explore every inch of Sherlock's exposed skin. But the blood rushing through his veins urged him onward and Sherlock answered in kind with an incessant chant devoted to his name, spurring him ever forward (faster and for moremoremore). He almost felt the force of his thumping pulse hammering away in his ears. Sherlock gave a choked gasp as John closed his fingers around the other man's erection. John all too happily swallowed the sound and began rubbing up and down the shaft in hopes of eliciting more like it.

"God, Sherlock."

Sherlock's cock was hot and smooth and heavy in John's hand. A downward stroke pushed back the foreskin to reveal the head. John thumbed the slit, smearing the bead of precome over the glans. Sherlock gasped. His hips stuttering as he thrust his cock deeper into John's fist.

"John, John, I—"

Sherlock caught John's wrists, pulled them away, and walked him backwards until his shoulder blades met the windowpane. John shivered at the biting cold, but any protest on his lips died as soon as Sherlock slotted their hips together. His head fell back against the glass, causing him to groan in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Sherlock's teeth skimmed across the skin of his exposed neck, and John bucked up in search of more friction. God, he was panting and rutting like a bleeding teenager.

He really didn't want to stop though.

Neither did Sherlock. The taller man growled something unflattering about John's stature before heaving him further up against the glass. One hand remained firmly clawed around John's hip while the other cradled the curve of John's arse, kneading and squeezing. John caressed the length of Sherlock's arms—along the muscles trembling and straining with exertion. Somewhere in the back of John's mind, there was still the dim, quiet thought of how anyone walking outside would be able to see them—would know what they were doing. But it was easily drowned out by a much louder and pleasurable thoughts when Sherlock's sweat-slick cock dragged across his own.

"John, you're amazing," Sherlock said fervently. "And fantastic. I've never met anyone like you."

Riding high on the endorphins, John laughed. "You too, you're absolutely brilliant!"

The next frantic thrust nearly landed him flat on his arse on the floor. He tried to wrap his legs around Sherlock's narrow waist, but his jeans riding low around his thighs prevented him from doing so. He dug his fingers into Sherlock's shoulder for balance and dragged his nails down his back. Sherlock hissed and arched his back into the sensation. Then he bent his head forward, biting and sucking John's neck in a way that a mark would later form. Of course, the lanky bastard was possessive. As if the bruising grip on his hips weren't already indication enough.

"Mine," Sherlock muttered again and again as his lips found their way back to John's. "You're mine and no one else's."

Despite the lack of the lifting tone near the end, it still sounded like a question to John. Though hesitant and fragile was this new unnamed thing between them, it (whatever  _this_ is—whenever it may lead them) crystallized with his breathless "yes."

Sherlock was close with sweat running down his temples and face scrunched in concentration. He was just too bloody gorgeous. The sight of Sherlock haloed by his sweaty curls made John impossibly harder. He wasn't going to last long either.

"Fuck, Sherlock, look at me," he pleaded.

His eyes snapped open and John was caught in a whirlpool of ice blue. Sherlock's pupils were dilated, and there was no denying how affected he was.

"John," Sherlock panted. "I'm going to—"

John snaked a hand between them and grasped them together, pumping once—twice before Sherlock's strangled cry and his wet release finally pushed John over the edge too. His vision nearly whited out from the force of the orgasm and his knees buckled without Sherlock to help support him.

They slid to the floor where they lay tangled in one spent and overheated mess, gasping desperately to catch their breath again. John rested his head on Sherlock's bony shoulder, snuggling closer despite the sticky mess cooling between them. He breathed a content sigh as Sherlock ran one hand lightly down his spine before cupping his still jean-clad arse.

"That was..."

John laughed slightly as Sherlock struggled to find the right word. "Good?" he asked.

"That'll do for now. But later, we need to work on your appalling vocabulary."

"And then your pillow talk?" Up close, John could more thoroughly examine the new scars Sherlock had acquired in his time away (his heart clenched painfully at the number he counted—too many). He had only caught glimpses of them before.

Sherlock went still under him. John feared that he was already emotionally withdrawing.

"Relax, pillow talk can be teasing. As long as you're not being a complete arse about it."

But Sherlock didn't relax. He stiffened when John's touch grazed the edge of a healed gunshot wound. "I know that," he said on the verge of snapping. "The scars, I know they're hardly attractive—"

John pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips to interrupt him. Others might find Sherlock's current insecurity endearing, but John thought it was heartbreaking. Of all the things that Sherlock should demonstrate reluctance over, his body and scars should not be one of them. "Sherlock, it's fine. I'm the last person on earth that should give two shits about a few scars. I just want to look at them, remind myself that neither of us has had it easy."

Sherlock brushed one hand over his good shoulder and his tattoo before carefully thumbing the gnarled scar on his other shoulder. John swallowed at the fleeting touch. His lovers since returning from Afghanistan had not always appreciated the sight. He was never ashamed of the wound he took for queen and country, but he did dread the unreasonable mix of pity and disgust it engendered in some people.

"Yours is different, you are good, John. Were I a more poetic man, I'd say yours was a badge of honor while mine are marks of penance."

"We've been over this before, Sherlock. I'm not really that better of a person than you. Less of a wanker maybe, but no better."

"Perhaps."

John's fingers lingered over a patch of discolored skin, only hesitating when Sherlock sucked in a lungful of air. (It was not an injury that he was familiar with, which scared him). "Will you tell me about them someday?"

When Sherlock replied "yes" with only the briefest of hesitation, John counted it as a win.

-x-x-x-

They fell into Sherlock's bed sometime later, naked and too tired to do anything but sleep. It had been hard enough to convince Sherlock, who was more than content to just pass out on the living room floor, to move. But John persisted, especially when Sherlock clung to him like a long-limbed octopus. Only John's insistence that he was far too old to be sleeping on the floor finally persuaded Sherlock to relocate.

Then in the early hours of dawn, John groaned when the mattress shifted and the great source of warmth peeled away from his side. Barely able to shake off the tendrils of slumber, he groped blindly for it because his eyes were too heavy to open.

Someone (Sherlock) pushed him back down, smoothed out his hair, and said, "John, go back to sleep."

And he did.

What finally dragged him back into the waking world was the sound of puttering from their kitchen. John buried his face deeper into the pillow as a last-ditch attempt to ward against the encroaching day. For a man that so often eschewed sleep, Sherlock's bed was surprisingly large and comfortable—the sheets were soft and everything smelled like Sherlock.

After a few more moments of staring at the ceiling until the noise had faded away, John rolled out of the bed and reached for his discarded clothing. Further examination revealed that only his jeans and pants had made the trip to the bedroom, and they were both tacky with dried semen. Sherlock's burgundy dressing gown was thrown over the back of a chair. John momentarily wavered, but he wasn't ready to romp around the flat starkers just yet.

Whatever John had expected to see once he pushed through the door into the kitchen, it hadn't been Mycroft Holmes, prim and proper as always, sitting at their mostly cleared table and sipping a cup of tea. He yelped and jumped, while the doors slammed shut with a bang.

"Good morning, John." Mycroft greeted, nonplussed.

John resisted the urge to pinch himself to see if this was all some horrible nightmare. But he didn't. He did pull the robe tighter around his body and cleared his throat before speaking, "Morning, Mycroft. Where's Sherlock?"

He tried not to think of the worst scenario possible.

"Sherlock isn't home. I believe he left a while ago to speak with the detective inspector."

Mycroft smiled in that perfectly benign manner, which did nothing to put John at ease.

"Okay, then why are you here?"

"I believe a conversation about last night's activities is in order."

Agitation was quick to rise to the surface. "I could be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business. Sherlock and I are adults, and if—"

"Doctor Watson, please," it almost sounded like a plea. "I am here to discuss the events that took yourselves and Ms. Morstan to the office of one Mister Henry Heston last night."

"Oh," John said weakly. He wondered if his face was as flushed as he felt. Still, he could take some satisfaction in the slight grimace in Mycroft's brow and the way the older man was leaning just off center. For Mycroft Holmes, it was the equivalent of squirming in his seat.

"Indeed. If I recalled correctly, we both agreed that Sherlock was best not informed about the nature of your other job."

John racked his mind. Last meeting? The last time he and Mycroft had even talked was back in Christmas. There had also been less of a discussion than a veiled threat giving way to Mycroft's usual method of passive-aggressively asking John to look after Sherlock. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, "I'm not one of your cronies. I don't owe you any sort of explanation."

"Be reasonable, John. Sherlock is reckless at the best of times. To introduce another factor as volatile as the paranormal is foolhardy. If I cannot trust you to not endanger my brother, I will not hesitate to have you removed from his life," Mycroft gave him a pointed look before continuing. "No matter what your current relationship with him may be. Do not mistake yourself as indispensable."

"We tried that," John hissed, unable to keep his anger under wrap. "I lied to him for months about this. Don't you dare accuse me of not caring. I have done everything in my power to keep Sherlock safe. Do you know what came from keeping him in the dark? He was possessed by a demon, Mycroft. You had no idea how close we came to losing him because we didn't provide him with the tools to keep himself safe. If I had told him in the first place, it might not have even happened."

Mycroft blanched, and the teacup rattled in the saucer when he placed it down. John almost felt bad for popping this on him with no warning, but he had started it.

"Explain," Mycroft demanded.

"Over Easter, you texted me because you thought there was something wrong with Sherlock. There was, he was possessed. It was the case he was working with Charles Milverton, who was also previously possessed."

He sat down across from Mycroft and spent the next fifteen minutes recounting almost every detail of what had happened over Easter. The only detail he did omit was the one about the so-called New King of Hell. All Mycroft needed to know was that a demon higher up on the food chain had dealt with Milverton's demon. Mycroft never interrupted with any questions, but he listened to every word that came from John's mouth with singular concentration.

"And Sherlock?" The off-center leaning had become even more exaggerated through the course of the conversation.

Now faced with evidence of Mycroft's worry, John found himself relaxing again. "He's fine now. I was able to exorcise the demon before it did any damage to him or others."

"And the demon?"

"In hell where it belongs. I doubt it'll be getting out anytime soon. But thank you for texting me. You were spot on about something being off. Things could have been a lot worse if it had waited until I returned on Monday."

Mycroft studied him quietly for some time, and John made no attempt to hide himself from the gaze. He had never given in to Mycroft Holmes before, and he wasn't going to start now. Mycroft only looked away when a shrill chirp emitted from somewhere in his pockets. A more familiar expression settled over his features as he read whatever message was on his mobile screen.

"No, thank you, John." He stood and gingerly picked up his brolly that was leaning against the side of the table. "I best take my leave then."

John was stunned. "That's it? That was your entire interrogation?"

"Sherlock is on his way back at this very moment and I'd rather any knowledge of my involvement remain off-record." Mycroft stopped in the doorway—now teetering on the edge of annoyance.

"You threatened to make me disappear, Mycroft. That goes way beyond even your usual paranoia."

"And I apologize for that, Doctor Watson. A misunderstanding, if you will. You've proven yourself as capable as ever. I see no reason why our current arrangement can't continue."

"I don't work for you," John said wearily.

"No, and that's probably for the better."

The sound of London traffic filtered up the stairwell, followed by Sherlock calling, "John!" Resigned to his fate, Mycroft straightened his already perfectly positioned tie and waited for Sherlock to finish clamoring up the stairs. When Sherlock appeared in the doorway, John's heart leapt at the sight. Sherlock's hair was windswept and his cheeks flushed from running around. He pushed past Mycroft, placing a possessive hand on the small of John's back before growling at his older brother.

"What is it that you want, Mycroft?"

"Can't I have a simple cup of tea with Doctor Watson?"

John buried his face in his hands, ready to die from embarrassment, when Sherlock fisted the robe and snarled, "No."

"Be careful now, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to scare John off after how hard you worked. John, I'm afraid you'll have to be patient with my brother. You know how he is."

John couldn't bring himself to look Mycroft in the eye anymore, but he knew damn well that the man was wearing some sort of infuriating smirk. Jesus Christ, why the hell was Mycroft goading Sherlock?

"Get out," Sherlock snarled and turned his back to his brother. Every muscle in his body radiated tension.

That did it. John wasn't going to tolerate this any further. He glanced over Sherlock's shoulder and firmly said, " _Goodbye_ , Mycroft."

Behind Sherlock's back, Mycroft gave him a pointed nod, before finally sauntering out without another word. When the street door closed with a dignified click, Sherlock collapsed against his shoulder like a marionette with its strings cut. John swiftly brought both arms up to cradle Sherlock, stepping back until he hit the edge of the table. Sherlock smelled of both sweat and London, a heady combination that would always remind John of "home."

"I should have realized Mycroft was luring me away so that he could get you alone." Sherlock's words were muffled in John's clothed shoulder.

"It's okay, Mycroft just wanted to talk."

The hold around his waist tightened as Sherlock lifted his head to investigate the hair at John's temple. "I was afraid," Sherlock admitted lowly. "I was afraid he would try and send you away—that he would convince you to finally leave. Mycroft, he tries to ruin everything for me."

John's chest tightened uncomfortably and felt three sizes too small for his fluttering heart. The supernatural would undoubtedly add another layer to an already keyed up sibling rivalry. Best to leave it for another day. Because at the end of the day, Mycroft wasn't going to be able to dictate what he or Sherlock did.

"I think Mycroft was just getting in his daily power trip in. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you. Certainly not because of Mycroft." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, hoping it would help reassure the other man.

Sherlock returned the kiss full on the lips with little finesse but no small amount of enthusiasm. John fisted the jacket and happily gave into his imploring mouth and tongue, allowing the kiss to chase away the last visages of his insecurities.

"I should have never left the bed in the first place," Sherlock muttered darkly. Thankfully, he now sounded more like a petulant child than a man intent on committing fratricide.

John laughed and pulled him closer. "You could always go back to bed. You don't have anywhere else you need to be, do you?"

Sherlock swept a considering gaze up and down the length of his body, and John's toes curled under the stare. With one hand looped around the belt of the dressing gown. Sherlock smirked and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom.

**-FIN-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) SFO = Serious Fraud Office, the UK governmental department that investigates fraud and corruption. There isn’t really a dedicated division to general white collar crimes in England at the moment. Though that can change if the proposed National Crime Agency, which includes an Economic Crime division, is instituted.


	15. Author's Ending Notes

While there were originally 16 chapters planned for this fic, I've decided to not pursue this story through its planned end. The truth is that my enthusiasm for Sherlock was already waning before series 3 came out, and series 3 was essentially the last nail in the coffin. Other than completing the current crossover that's a giftfic, I have no interest in writing more Sherlock fanfiction. 

To bring this fic to a close and provide some closure, I've deleted chapter 15 from the main story and am effectively ending the story after chapter 14. Chapter 14 feels like a fitting place to end because the main plot and relationship are resolved by then. Chapter 15 can still be found at <http://archiveofourown.org/works/1590251> if anyone is interested in reading it. 

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on the fic. Thank you so much for your support. I'm sorry I couldn't do right by the readers and finish it.


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